


let's break our hearts again and again

by Teardropfires



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Bisexual Derek Hale, F/M, M/M, The Hale Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-07-17 23:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teardropfires/pseuds/Teardropfires
Summary: Stiles thought he was going to marry the love of his life, but a tragic accident crushed that dream. Years later, when he's finally starting to move on with his life, he's met with an unfathomable possibility.And apparently, there are not enough stages of grief for this shit.





	1. Prologue

He wakes. But that can’t be because he’s dead. Pain like this means he’s dead. It has to. It’s blinding and white-hot, but cold at the same time. Maybe he is blind? After all, he can’t see.

Too much.

+

He wakes when hands touch him, but only because it hurts and he needs to let them know. Is it Jackson? Or Peter? Are they here, are they hurt too? Where is the car? 

He tries to listen closer. The voices don’t sound like them. He tries to tell the voices, whoever they may belong to, but his voice sounds muffled and unfamiliar to his own ears when he does, so he gives up. 

It’s too much. 

+

They pick him up anyway. He’s realized this once he’s woken up again in pain. He groans because fucking ouch, is being dead supposed to hurt this much? 

“You’re not dead, my friend,” He hears from a deep, comforting voice. He tries to follow the sound, but he can’t really move his head that far. He can vaguely recognize the outline of car seats and the bleary light of the cars time clock. At least he’s not blind. 

“I mean he's practically dead.” Comes another voice, female and matter-of-fact. Weirdly, he appreciates it more than the comforting man. 

“ _Braeden_.” The first voice chides. 

“Just drive, Alan, before this dude bleeds out in the car.” She says and puts something firm against the back of his head. The pain flares and his vision goes white for a moment before it slowly fades to black. 

Dying was too much. 


	2. Present Day: two years and one week later - Stiles

Stiles shivers as goosebumps breakout against his sweat-slicked skin. His eyes close as he lets his head lull back slowly, pleasure creeping up his spine. 

He never gets to take his time like this anymore, which is what makes the consistent vibrations of his phone even more upsetting. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, both blissed out and annoyed. He groans as the hands at his waist tighten around him, making him still.

“Nonononononono, let’s keep going,” Stiles says in a desperate rush, breath catching as the boy shifts beneath him. He grabs the hand reaching toward the nightstand and laces their fingers together.

“Stiles.”

“Boyd,” Stiles says, mimicking Boyd’s disapproving tone. He puts his hand to Boyd’s cheek and guides Boy’s face back towards him, noting the look of worry etched across his face. He leans down to capture Boyd’s lips in a sweet kiss.

“Ignore it,” Stiles says against Boyd’s skin. Stiles leans in again and nips teasingly at Boyd's bottom lip. He takes advantage of the moan it elicits by flicking his tongue against Boyd’s. They kiss messily and unrestrained until Stiles’ phone starts up again and Boyd pulls away. Stiles sighs. He lets his hands trail from Boyd’s face and down to his chest as he sits up again.

“It could be important,” Boyd says, breath hitching as Stiles starts to roll his hips. 

“Its urgency won’t change by the time we get off,” Stiles says. 

He lifts up slightly before sinking back down, his eyes closing again on the pleasure. 

“Someone could be,” Boyd pauses, and Stiles opens his eyes to see a concerned look on his face. Boyd moves his hand from Stiles’ hips and puts it to his face, his big thumb rubbing a soothing pattern across Stiles’ cheek. 

“Someone could be hurt.”

That’s not what he’d been about to say. Stiles knows it, and he can tell that Boyd knows that Stiles knows. Stiles knows what he’s thinking about. He tries his hardest not to think about it, but it happens anyway. 

Fragment memories of that night slip through the battered box in his mind. The box he built to keep all thoughts of him. Of Derek.

In lightning-quick flashes he remembers the call, Derek’s sister weeping on the other line, how the floor felt as he collapsed onto it, Lydia’s arms wrapping around him, and the way the words punch from his gut.  _ He’s dead. Derek is dead. _

“Stiles,” Boyd says, voice soft, pulling him away from the memories. With a quick shake of his head, Stiles rattles the thoughts back into their box. He imagines a thick rope tying itself around the box. 

Lydia would be disappointed with him. He told her months ago he’d stopped doing that. He can deal with that later too. Right now he has more important things to worry about.

“Whoever it is will still be dead when we get done,” Stiles says and turns his head to suck Boyd’s thumb into his mouth.

“Stiles,” Boyd says again, this time with an air of reproach.

Stiles isn’t even sorry. Nope, he’s horny and his… well his Boyd, who has been gone for almost a month, feels good inside of him. 

“Come on, Boyd,” Stiles says as he pulls his mouth off the now spit slick thumb. He rolls his hips again, this time with a bit more force. Boyd’s hands move to either side of his waist. He goes back to the Derek box of memories and reaches in deliberately for one of his favorite quotes. 

“If we have a shitstorm waiting for us. Let’s at least make the most of right now.”

Boyd smiles a little sadly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in.

“Do you want me to stop,” Stiles says. Before Boyd can answer, Stiles braces his hands on Boyd’s chest for leverage and does another achingly slow roll of his hips, sinking down onto Boyd as much as his body will allow. His breath catches at the jolt of pleasure that shoots through him. “I’ll stop. If you want.”

And Stiles isn’t playing fair. He knows he’s not, but life isn’t fair. He knows it, Boyd knows it. And neither of them are under the pretense that Stiles is a nice guy. Boyd shakes his head and moves his hands to cling at Stiles' waist. On the next roll of Stiles' hips, he thrusts up into him pushing in deeper. Stiles moans loudly, his hands scrambling to find a surface that he can dig his hands into. He leans forward to grab the pillows underneath Boyd’s head in a death grip. He lets his lips brush against Boyd’s, and he lets out a cry of pleasure as Boyd starts to thrust into him. 

Boyd, setting a relentless pace, soon fills the room with the sound of their moans and the slap of sweat-slick skin that drown out any remaining rings. 

+

Stiles feels floaty, light and giddy from his second orgasm of the night, and is content to let Boyd do the remaining hard work. Hard work that consists of toweling his body dry from the shower they just took.

“You could help you know,” Boyd says before rubbing the towel roughly over Stiles’ wet head. Stiles’ protest is muffled against the fabric, and when Boyd pulls it away with a, “What was that?” he laughs and runs his hands through Stiles’ hair to soothe back his wild strands. 

“My limbs don’t work,” Stiles’ says, leaning into Boyd’s touch. “Your dick broke me.” 

Boyd laughs and bends down, draping himself over Stiles. Stiles instinctively wraps his legs around Boyd’s waist, who in turn wraps his arms around Stiles. Boyd pulls him close and leans in to kiss him softly.

“Well then, my apologies,” Boyd says against his lips. 

“Mhm,” Stiles says, his arms wrapping around Boyd’s neck. “I forgive you.”

Boyd smiles, one of his rare full of teeth smiles instead of his standard smirk, and Stiles breath catches at the sight. His stomach does that funny swooping thing it’s been doing for the past couple of months. A feeling he hadn’t imagined having ever again.

He leans in and brushes his lips against Boyd’s.

“I love you,” he says, and his heart stutters uncomfortably, the weight of what he’s done hitting him instantly. 

He stills, suddenly feeling more fragile than he’s ever felt with Boyd. A string of  _ shitshitshitshit _ starts blaring in his head, because SHIT. That’s the first time he’s said that to Boyd. It’s the first time in almost 2 years that he’s said it to anyone whose name wasn’t Derek Hale, and for fuck sake, He and Boyd haven’t even talked about what it is they are actually doing. Having sex on a pretty regular basis for the last year is one thing, but who told Stiles he could have feelings. 

Feelings. For his dead fiance’s best friend. Shit. 

Boyd pulls back slightly from him, and Stiles braces himself for the worst. He’s afraid that he’ll see anger, confusion, or something even worse, pity. But when he looks up, his breath catches at the beaming smile on Boyd’s face. Boyd opens his mouth to speak when there’s a loud knock at the door. 

“Stiles!” someone shouts from the other side of his apartment door. “Are you home? Stiles?”

Stiles and Boyd share a worried look before they separate from each other.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Stiles says, the knocks and shouts of his name getting louder as he and Boyd scramble around the room to put on clothing. 

Boyd, ever efficient, gets dressed in record time and is swinging the door open as Parrish has his fist raised for another round of knocking.

Parrish gives Boyd an alarmed look, not expecting someone other than Stiles to answer. and his eyes settle on Stiles just behind Boyd still trying to hop into a pair of pants. He clears his throat and diverts his eyes while Stiles pulls his pants the rest of the way up. 

Stiles' heart sinks as he moves to step towards Boyd, “My dad,” he says, voice catching.

“No, he’s fine,” Parrish says as Boyd pulls Stiles into a one-armed hug. “He sent me to get you when you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Where is he?” Stiles asks, relief flooding him instantly. “Why didn’t he come himself?”

“He’s at the Hales,” Parrish says, then hesitates. “There’s been, um, some sort of disturbance.”

“What happened?” Boyd demands, his arm tightening around Stiles.

“I’m not sure,” Parrish says, “I was on patrol when I was dispatched to come to get you.” 

“Why didn’t they call me,” Boyd says as he walks away from the door. Stiles watches him as he walks over to his jacket laying down on the back of the couch and checks his pockets. Coming up empty he walks back into Stiles room. Stiles turns back to Parrish.

“So, there’s a problem at the Hales?” Stiles asks.

“You’re really going to have to come with me, I don’t know much.”

“I must have left it in your car,” Boyd says as he walks out of the bedroom, two pairs of shoes in hand. He hands Stiles a pair. “Here. Tell them we’re on the way,” He says to Parrish. 

“I’ll give you guys an escort,” Parrish says. Boyd nods and bends over to put on his own shoes. He looks up at Stiles, who hasn’t moved. 

“Stiles,” Boyd says sharply. Stiles looks to him and he points to his hands. “Shoes.”

“Um,” Stiles says and looks at Parrish. 

“I’ll meet you guys downstairs,” Parrish says and walks away. 

Stiles closes the door and leans his head against it. His chest feels tight as he tries to take a breath in. He closes his eyes against the panic rising in his throat. 

Strong arms wrap around him and squeeze tightly. Stiles drops the shoes to bring his hands around Boyd. He feels Boyd's chest rise slowly against his back on a deep inhale. Boyd's arms tighten as he exhales just as slowly. On the next inhale Stiles tries to match his breath. Boyd holds him close until their breathing syncs.

Stiles turns around in Boyd’s arms and lets him hold for another few minutes until Boyd kisses the top of his head.

“It’ll be okay,” He says. Stiles nods and then steps away. He steps into his shoes and walks around Boyd and back to his room. He stares down at his now silent phone. It feels heavier than usual as he picks it up in pockets it. 

When he walks out Boyd’s waiting at the door. 

“I just need my keys,” Stiles says softly and walks over to the counter.

“I have them here,” Boyd says. “I can drive us.”

Stiles scoffs and grabs them out of Boyd’s hand as he walks past him. “Yeah, right.”

“Stiles,” Boyd says, more exasperated than anything else. Stiles ignores him and locks the door. He follows behind him trying to convince him. 

“It’s not like I haven’t driven it before,” Boyd says as he holds the lobby door open for him.

“I was drunk and you did not have my consent,” Stiles says as he pushes past him onto the parking lot. Parish turns his head sharply and eyes the pair suspiciously. 

“He’s talking about his car,” Boyd says, and Stiles can tell he’s rolling his eyes without looking back at him. 

“My baby has never been so violated,” Stiles says as he walks towards his Jeep, “I should have the deputy arrest you on the spot.”

“Yeah well maybe next time I’ll let you get a DUI,” Boyd says in a low grumble as he walks over to the passenger side.

Stiles just laughs lightly as he hops into the car. He starts the engine and waits for Parish to pull out of the complex. 

As soon as they hit the road, Stiles is overwhelmingly reminded of the time of year. He keeps his eyes straight ahead in an effort of trying to avoid the flashing lights, inflatable lawn decorations, and neon signs of seasons greetings. He hasn’t felt the desire to decorate for the holiday for awhile. Despite numerous attempts from his friends, including a coup that almost got Scott’s key privileges revoked, Stiles interest in Christmas was minimal. 

Lydia says he shuts down emotionally after Labor Day. 

“Yeah, well they can all shove it,” Stiles mutters darkly.

“Hm?”

Stiles looks over to Boyd and shakes his head noticing the puzzled look on his face. 

“It’s nothing.” He says and looks back to the road. Stiles taps nervously on the wheel as they follow behind the police cruiser. Boyd swears as he pulls his phone away from his face with a huff. 

“Any luck getting ahold of someone?” Stiles asks. 

“No, but reception headed to their house is pretty bad sometimes,” Boyd says and scrolls through his phone. 

“Laura did leave me several… colorful messages though,” Boyd says. Stiles snorts and then jumps as his phone rings suddenly. 

He tries to fish it out of his pocket and the car sways a little with the effort. Boyd bats his hand away and pulls it out the rest of the way. 

“It’s Scott,” he says, and they exchange a look before Boyd answers. 

“Scott,” He pauses. “Yeah, it is. Listen, we’re, me and Stiles, we’re on our way now.”

Boyd looks around and then at the road. “I’d say we’re about 15 minutes away? Maybe 10, we’re following the Deputy.”

“Ask him what’s going on,” Stiles says, grip tightening around the steering wheel. 

Boyd starts to asks but stops and lets out an annoyed huff. “Okay fine, we’re close. Yeah, bye.”

“What did he say?”

“To hurry up.” 

Stiles bites his lip and glares at the car in front of him. His thumb beats a rhythmic pattern against the wheel again. 

“Stiles,” Boyd says, a warning in his voice. 

“Fuck it,” Stiles says and slams on the accelerator. With a lurch, he speeds around Parrish, nearly scraping the side of the car. Parrish turns on his sirens as they pass. 

“Stiles!” Boyd shouts, holding on to the handle above the seat as they’re jolted to the side when Stiles pulls back into his lane. 

“Shut up,” Stiles says through his teeth as he speeds down the dark road. 

They make it to the Hale house in under 10 minutes, slamming to a near stop to turn down the long driveway. 

“Idiot,” Boyd mutters as they approach the house. 

“I got you here in one piece didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

Stiles ignores him and pulls the jeep behind Lydia’s Prius and turns it off. 

“God. Everyone’s here,” he comments as he climbs out of the car. He slams the door shut and walks around his jeep to meet Boyd who is also staring at the row of cars. “Maybe we should have come separately.”

“Why would we?” Boyd asks. Stiles’ heart clenches a bit. He shrugs.

“Because they don’t,” He pauses. “Derek was your friend.”

“Best friend,” Boyd corrects.

Stiles nods. “I haven’t been here since we, me and you I mean, and I wasn’t sure, not really sure how, you know they’ll um, you know, take it,” Stiles says. 

“Take what?” Boyd asks. 

Stiles looks at him. Boyd looks back.

“Boyd,” Stiles says, almost a whisper. 

“Take what?” Boyd says, not backing down.

“You know what,” Stiles says, his throat feeling oddly tight. 

Boyd smiles. He steps in close, and Stiles instantly wraps his arms around him. He smells like sweat and his body wash and he smiles at the touch of lips against his temple. Too soon, because in this moment Stiles could live in his embrace forever, Boyd is stepping away.

“Well, there will probably be a lot of swearing as they all have to pay Cora,” Boyd says and walks towards the house. “ She’s been betting that there was something between us for months.”

Stiles squawks and follows behind him.

They get to the steps just as the police cruiser pulls into the driveway. 

Boyd is just about to open the door when he turns back to look at Stiles. 

“What is it?” Stiles says, on edge again.

“I love you, too,” Boyd says. He pauses and glances over his shoulder for a moment before looking back to Stiles. “And I know we haven’t really put a label or whatever on this, but I mean it. And whatever is on the other side of this door, _ whatever shitstorm _ , just know that. Okay?”

Stiles steps closer to him. He grabs a fistful of Boyd’s jacket and pulls him down as he leans in to kiss him. Boyd pulls back after a few seconds and sighs. He kisses Stiles’ forehead before he steps away and turns back towards the door. 

Boyd pushes the door open and steps inside, but a hand at Stiles' shoulder makes him stop before he can walk in behind him. Stiles turns to see Parrish looking slightly flustered but determined. 

“Hey, sorry about that. They were calling, and telling us to hurr-- what’s this?” Stiles says as he accepts a slip of paper from Parrish. “A citation!” 

“Have a good night, Stiles. I hope everything’s alright in there,” Parrish says, and with a stilted nod of his head, he turns and walks away. 

Stiles turns in disbelief to find Boyd grinning back at him. 

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps and walks in behind him.

“I didn’t say a word,” Boyd says as Stiles closes the door behind him. 

The house is eerily silent, despite the number of cars in the yard.

“Hello?” Stiles calls out. There’s the sound of a chair scraping against the floor before they hear someone call out.

“Stiles?”

They both turn to find Laura running towards them. 

Stiles doesn’t have time to say anything before she barrels into him, almost knocking him over with the force of her hug. Stiles’ arms wrap around her instantly. 

“Laura,” He breathes out. He can feel her shaking and it takes him a few seconds to realize that she’s crying into his shoulder. He shoots Boyd an alarmed look. 

“Laura,” Boyd says and pulls Laura out of Stiles’ arms. He puts his hand at the base of her neck, forcing her to look at him. “Laura, what’s happened? Is it Talia? Your Dad?” He asks, surprising Stiles by the slight catch in his voice.

She shakes her head, a small smile spreading on her tear-streaked face. 

“You guys won’t believe it,” she says and grabs Boyd’s hand before turning and pulling him down the hall she’d come from. Stiles follows behind them. He can hear the rest of the group as they get close to the large dining room at the end of the hallway.

“They’re here,” Laura announces as she pushes open the door. The room quiets as they walk in, and Stiles feels the hair on his neck rise. 

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks, getting anxious with all the eyes in the room on him. 

“Stiles.” Stiles turns to find Robert Hale standing from his seat closest to the door. Stiles takes in the broad-shouldered man in front of him, short hair a little more salt than pepper these days, and the laugh-line creased face of the Hale patriarch. Warmth washes over him almost instantly.

“It’s so good to see you, son,” he says and wraps Stiles into a much gentler hug. 

“It’s been too long,” Robert says as he pulls back. Guilt replaces the warmth from before.

He nods, clearing his throat. “You too. Sorry I haven’t been by...” 

“No, no. I know all of my children live very busy lives.”

“Yawn,” Peter says, cutting off Robert. His voice sounding bored. “As heartwarming as this is, can we get on with it.”

“I hate to agree with Uncle Peter,” Cora says. She gives her dad an apologetic look before she looks towards her mother. Stiles can tell that she’s tired, her eyes red and a little puffy like she’s been crying too, which is alarming since Stiles hasn’t seen her cry since the funeral.

“It’s almost 3 in the morning,” she continues. Her eyes meet Stiles and then settle on Boyd before she looks back to her mother. “We should just tell them.”

“Stiles, have a seat.” Stiles turns to see the Sheriff standing from his spot in the corner.

“I’m fine, Dad,” he says and turns back to Talia. “Tell us what?” 

“Stiles, you should sit,” Talia says, calmly.

“I don’t want to sit,” Stiles says, voice harsher than he means for it to be. Talia gives him a sharp look.

“What is it, Talia?” Boyd cuts in softly. 

Talia looks from the pair of them and then to Peter, she nods silently. Peter smiles and then reaches towards the center of the table where photo’s lay scattered across the surface. Peter pulls one at random and hands it to Stiles face down.

“We can’t be sure it’s him,” Lydia says, quickly. Stiles looks at her, shocked at the tears forming in her eyes.

“It’s him,” Laura says.

“Says who?” Cora snaps. 

“Says the picture,” Peter says. “in fact it says a thousand different things and I’ve got several more here if you need more proof.”

“It doesn’t even look like him,” Cora says, voice rising.

“It could be him,” Scott says quietly. 

“Who are we talking about?” Boyd asks.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes out. Stiles sees it even from his spot near the doorway. 

He’s not sure when he moves, but suddenly the picture’s are in his trembling hands and he can’t look away.

“It’s Derek.”

Boyd steps in close to look at the picture over Stiles’ shoulder.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles says, his eyes darting to the other photos littering the table. “What is this?”

“Survivor's remorse,” Cora says. “Or a Mid-life crisis. Take your pick.”

“Cora,” Talia admonishes. 

“It’s proof,” Peter says, making way for Stiles to look at the other pictures.

Stiles silently pulls a few more pictures towards him. 

“It doesn’t,” Cora starts but stops when Stiles reaches frantically for more photos. 

“When were these taken?” Boyd asks.

“Three,” Peter starts and then shrugs. “Four, maybe, weeks ago?” 

There’s a loud rattling sound that fills the air as Stiles stands back with the photos. It’s not until the room swims in front of him that he realizes it’s his own jagged breath.

Some of the photo’s slip from his hands as he falls, but Boyd’s there to catch him. 

“Stiles!” Someone shouts, and then there’s commotion happening all around him. Someone produces a seat, and Boyd guides him into it. 

“Guess he should have taken that seat after all.”

“Shut up, Peter,” Boyd snaps. 

“Boyd,” Stiles says, voice broken, ragged. “He’s alive.”

“Stiles,” Boyd tries, but Stiles starts pushing the photos at him.

“Look, look, look, look,” He says and Boyd nods. 

“I will, I will,” Boyd says and takes the photos from Stiles without looking down at them. Lydia holds her hand out for them and Boyd wordlessly hands them over to her. Stiles starts to protest because he didn’t look and he wants, no  _ needs _ , for Boyd to confirm he’s not going crazy. But Boyd shakes his head, as Stiles tries to argue, and grabs Stiles’ hands. He squeezes them tightly. “Stiles. Breathe. Come on, deep breath in.”

Stiles' eyes dart around to the occupants of the room.

“No, look at me,” Boyd says. He lifts a hand and gently guides Stiles’ face towards his. “That’s it. Another deep breath.”

The room his pin-drop silent, except for Boyd’s quiet reassurance and Stiles’ harsh breaths.

Boyd takes his time in getting Stiles to calm down, completely aware of all the eyes on them and choosing not to give a damn. It seems to take forever, but eventually, Stiles’ breath evens out. 

“That’s it,” Boyd says again, as Stiles sags against him. He can’t help himself. Boyd wraps his arms around Stiles. 

“Well, shit,” Peter drawls, his voice annoying. “How much do I owe you, Cora?”

“Shut up, Peter,” the room says in unison. 

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to join them. He just sits there and lets Boyd hold him, one thought racing through his mind over and over.

_ Alive. Derek is alive. _

+

Stiles declines when they offer him a room. 

“Stiles you should lay down, we know this is a lot to process,” Robert says.

But Stiles knows the only room they have available is the one he hasn’t stepped foot in almost two years. Not since Cora found him hunched over in Derek’s closet crying into a maroon sweater with stupid, fucking thumbholes. 

Stiles shakes his head and stands, his legs feeling unsteady. 

“Stiles,” Boyd says, gently. He rests his hand at the base of his spine. 

Stiles pulls his keys from his pocket and hands them to Boyd, finding comfort as Boyd closes his hand around them. 

“We’re leaving,” Stiles says and turns to leave.

“Stiles! Wait!” Scott says, and he can hear the scrape of chairs as he walks down the hall back towards the front of the house. 

“You’re just going to leave?” Laura shouts behind him. 

“Laura, calm down,” he hears Robert say.

“We’ll be back in the morning Laura,” Boyd says quietly. 

“ _ We’ll _ ?” Laura scoffs. “I can’t believe you, Boyd.”

“Laura,” Cora says, warning in her voice. 

Stiles turns around as he reaches the end of the hallway to see them all crowded around the entrance of the dining room; Boyd and Laura in the center of the hallway. 

“You’re his best friend,” She says, venom in her voice. “How could you?”

“That’s not fair, Laura,” Boyd says, evenly. 

“What do you think he’s going to say,” Laura says, stepping closer to Boyd. “When he finds out his best friend is screwing his fiance.” 

“Laura!” Talia says, voice cutting through the tension like a crack of lightning. “That’s enough.” 

“They don’t care!” Laura shouts.

“I said enough!” Talia says again. She strides into the hallway and puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and guides her back toward the kitchen. She turns to Boyd and puts a hand on his arm. Stiles can see her squeeze it softly before he nods at her silently and turns around towards Stiles. 

They walk out the rest of the way in silence. 

The ride back to Stiles’ apartment seems to pass in no time, but as Boyd pulls into the parking lot the dashboard clock says 4:44. The time has always been a little off, but in this moment Stiles couldn’t tell you how fast or slow it is. 

Boyd kills the engine and pulls the keys out of the ignition. He wordlessly hands them over to Stiles. There’s a beat of tense silence, and then Boyd moves to open the door. Stiles puts his hand on Boyd’s arm and tugs at his shirt. Boyd stops and turns to look at him.

Stiles turns in his seat. Boyd mirrors him and Stiles puts his hand on Boyd’s cheek. Boyd leans into it, turning his face to press a kiss against Stiles’ wrist.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Stiles says. 

Boyd sighs and shakes his head. 

“It doesn’t,” Stiles says, voice pleading. “Look at me.” 

Boyd takes a deep breath and looks up, shocking Stiles with the slight sheen of tears in his eyes. 

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Boyd says, voice thick with emotion. “I understand. I won’t blame you.” 

“Listen to me,” Stiles says, bringing his other hand to Boyd’s face. He practically climbs over the center console to lean into Boyd’s space. “I love you,” Stiles says, forcefully, desperate for Boyd to understand. 

“Stiles,” Boyd says, pulling away from him. Stiles pulls him against him and crashes his lips against Boyd’s.

He can feel the moment Boyd stops resisting and melts against him. Stiles hears his keys fall to the floor as he scrambles the rest of the way across the console to straddle Boyd’s lap.

Boyd’s arms wrap around him crushing Stiles against him. 

Stiles comes a third time grinding against Boyd, mouth open and panting into his neck. 

Boyd shudders against him a few seconds later, gripping him so hard he’s sure there’s a bruise coming. Stiles pulls back and rubs his lips against Boyd’s. “I love you,” Stiles says before he kisses him softly. 

+

The sound of Boyd talking quietly in the front room is the first thing Stiles comprehends when he wakes the next morning. He opens one eye and frowns at the lack of light in the room. He looks over at the clock on the nightstand and groans inwardly at the early hour. It hasn’t even been a full hour since they went to sleep. Well more like passed out from exhaustion. 

He sits up slowly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. 

“Hey.”

Stiles looks up and smiles stiffly at Boyd standing in the doorway. “Hi.”

Boyd walks in and holds up the phone.

“That was Scott,” Boyd says and comes to sit down on the edge of the bed. Stiles eyes the distance between them. “He says they’re all heading back to the Hales in about an hour. I have to go to my place and get a few things. So, if you want, they can pick you up on the way.”

“I’m not going,” Stiles says.

Boyd sighs, “Fine, you can drive.” 

“I’m not going,” Stiles says again. 

Boyd looks at him. Stiles stares back. 

“Stiles,” Boyd starts. “Last night --”

“Technically this morning,” Stiles says. 

Boyd ignores him. “We were emotional, and stressed, and exhausted.” 

“Not to mention horny.”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “Stiles.”

“Boyd,” he mimics. 

“You have to think about this,” Boyd says. “Maybe without me here.”

“I have thought about it.” 

“Without me,” Boyd says again. “I’m going to go to my place. I need to give you time to --.”

“He’s been dead two years,” Stiles says over him. Boyd looks at him then. 

“Two years last Wednesday, actually,” Stiles says softly. Then he frowns. “Except not.” 

Stiles can feel his skin heat with a flush, and there’s the sting of tears forming in his eyes. “Two goddamn years.” 

“Stiles,” Boyd says softly. Stiles looks away, shaking his head. “He’s not dead.”

“Exactly,” Stiles says, his composure breaking. He pulls his blankets back and jumps out of the bed.” He’s been alive and well for two goddamn years. And nothing! He just fucking disappeared.”

“Stiles, we don’t know anything,” Boyd says.

“We know that he knows how to use a telephone, how to write a fucking letter,” Stiles shouts. He pushes past Boyd out of the bedroom. 

“Stiles,” Boyd says as he follows him into the kitchen. “I think it’s safe to say that we don’t really know what’s what. Listen, we’ll go to the Hales today and figure out what they plan on doing about everything.”

“I’m not going,” Stiles says and slams a skillet on the stove. “Eggs?”

“Stiles don’t be-- what?”

“Do you want eggs? I’m starving,” Stiles says as he walks to the fridge. 

“What? No, Stiles listen. Just stop.” 

Boyd comes up behind him and pulls the carton of eggs out of his hands. He turns and sits them on the counter before turning back to Stiles. He puts his hands on Stiles' waist and pushes him gently against the fridge.

“Just stop for a second,” Boyd says softly. He takes a deep breath and moves his hands to Stiles' face. “Look at me.”

Stiles, reluctantly, looks up -- prepared to stand his ground. His heart clenches at the emotion he sees on Boyd’s face.

“I’m scared too,” Boyd says softly. “Shitless. I’m scared of what will happen when I go to the Hales. I’m scared of what happens if we find him. I’m scared it’s not true. I’m scared,” he pauses and swallows loudly.

“I’m scared that it is true,” He whispers. 

“You’ll have your best friend back,” Stiles whispers in reply. 

“But, I’ll lose the love of my life,” Boyd counters.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles says and leans up to kiss him.

“Except to the Hales,” Boyd says when he pulls away. Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls away. 

“I’m really not going, Boyd,” Stiles says and resumes making his eggs. 

Boyd is silent for so long Stiles sort of gets lost in the silence, forcing all of his focus into cooking. 

“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” Boyd says so quietly, Stiles wasn't sure he was meant to hear it. Stiles stills in cooking his eggs, spatula frozen mid-air. Boyd clears his throat and he walks over and lowers the spatula back into the pan.

“Don’t burn those,” He says and kisses the back of Stiles’ head. “I’ll text you when I’m leaving my place. Let me know if you need me to swing by.”

He walks out of the apartment before Stiles can turn to say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I'll write something fluffy again. Anyway I hope you enjoy the angst! This is a WIP so happy ending not guaranteed (but who am I kidding I love a good happy ending). 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please let me know!


	3. Two Years and One Week Before - Stiles

“One more week, one more week, one more week,” Stiles mutters under his breath. 

He plasters a smile on his face as he waves faux-energetically at one of his student’s running by. 

“One more goddamn week,” he says through his teeth, the smile falling away once the kid runs completely past him. 

There’s a soft chuckle beside him as Scott sidles up next to him with a cup of coffee extended out in his direction. Stiles’ eyes widen and he grabs the coffee greedily, the warmth of the paper cup instantly heating up his chilled hands. 

“I love you,” Stiles says as he brings the coffee up to his face, the steam wafting towards his nostrils.

“Me, or the coffee?” Scott says, amused. 

“Definitely the coffee,” Stiles says. He nudges Scott in the arm and raises the cup in a gesture. “Thanks.”

“Just fulfilling my duties as best man,” Scott says. 

“Ah, yes. Speaking of -- are you still insistent on keeping this weekend a secret from me?” Stiles asks. He pauses to take a sip of coffee. “Because you know I hate surprises.” 

“You love surprises,” Scott says, and then adds. “No running!” as two students race down the hallway. 

“I actually don’t,” Stiles says. He pushes open the door of his classroom and holds it open for Scott. “It’s one of your few best friend flaws.”

“Few?!” Scott exclaims. He stops halfway in the door, shock written over his face. “What few?” 

“Well, first,” Stiles starts. He lets the door go and walks around Scott, “ you think I like surprises.” 

“You do!” Scott says and then “oof!” as the door hits him in the shoulder.

“No, _you_ like surprises, which makes you think everyone likes them,” Stiles says. He pulls his chair from behind his desk, examining it for any thumbtacks — he’s really regretting starting that prank war with his homeroom students — before he sits down. 

“Whatever, this is a stupid game.”

“Should I keep going or will you tell me what we’re doing?”

“If I tell you, you’re just gonna try and change it.”

“Probably,” Stiles says, switching his attention to a stack of student essays on his desk. “It is _my_ bachelor party.”

“And that is _why_ it will remain a surprise,” Scott says and sits on one of the empty student desks in front of Stiles’. Stiles just grunts and pulls an essay off the top of his pile.

“Okay, fine,” Scott breaks. Stiles smiles to himself as he continues. “I will say that it’s nothing as drastic as spending a weekend in the freaking mountains -” He pauses to screw his face up into a grimace before he finishes, “ - _camping_. Ugh”

“Well, thank God,” Stiles says, dryly, then he smiles. “But I’d assumed that you’d try to one-up Derek, not do the exact same thing.”

“Well, technically I’d be one-upping Boyd since he planned it.”

“Nope, because unlike you, Derek’s best friend understands his need to have all the facts.”

“You mean his need to be a control freak,” Scott mutters. Stiles huffs out a laugh as he turns over one of the papers.

“Be that as it may,” Stiles says. “Derek knew what he was getting into from the start, which is perfect since Boyd can’t even go anymore.”

“Well, at least the spot didn’t go to waste. Peter’s going now, right?” Scott asks and then adds. “What’s Boyd got going on again?”

“Some family thing he’s being guilted into,” Stiles says, distracted, as he squints down at a student’s essay. He shrugs and writes a B- on the top of the page before he puts it to the side and picks up another one. “Anyway, I’d hardly say that Peter is an improvement.” 

“I didn’t say improvement, just not a waste.”

“Fine, fine,” Stiles says and then looks up, mildly exasperated. “Don’t you have a lacrosse practice to get ready for.”

Scott lets out a long, drawn out sigh before he hops down from the desk and heads towards the door. He’s got his hand on the knob, ready to push it open when he turns back to address Stiles.

“Hey, don’t stay here too late tonight. I know you’re trying to wrap everything up before the wedding, but don’t stress out about it now. You’ve got a whole week.”

Stiles nods distractedly, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call him tomorrow.” 

Scott shakes his head, debates whether he should push the matter further, but decides against it and walks out, leaving Stiles to drown in his grading.

+

Much later, Stiles shoulders the door to the loft open, juggling a backpack, a stack of essays, and a paper cup with the dregs of his afternoon coffee. 

“There you are. I called you like 8 times. I ended up having to call Scott and _he_ finally told me you were still working. I thought we were going to have dinner before I left.”

Stiles looks up from his struggle to find Derek walking towards him.

“I told you I was working late,” Stiles says and does a complicated spin to close the door with his foot.

“You didn’t,” Derek says, and then sighs. “Jesus, Stiles. Here, let me help you with that.”

And before Stiles can protest, because despite what it might look like, he has a pretty good grip on everything, Derek goes to pull the backpack, which in turn makes the papers fall out of his hands, and in a haste to catch those, he drops the coffee. 

“Shit!” he says and quickly picks up the coffee before it can spread to more of the papers. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, a touch of exasperation in his voice. Stiles snaps his head up, annoyance flaring up quick.

“That was not my fault. I had it, and then you tried to yank my backpack off-”

“Yeah you looked real steady just then,” Derek says, sarcasm thick. Stiles just glares at him and Derek sighs again, “Look, I was just trying to help,” 

“Yeah, well, thanks for the help,” Stiles mutters as he bends to gather the rest of his student’s work. He stands and hands Derek the paper cup and takes his bag from him as he starts to walk towards the couch where he can spread out for the night and grade papers.

“What’s this for?” Derek asks. 

Stiles looks over his shoulder and frowns. “What?”

“Why did you give this to me?” Derek asks and holds the paper cup out in front of him. 

“Throw it away, Derek,” Stiles says, his turn to be exasperated. 

Derek turns and mutters something that sounds like “so now I’m your garbage man”. Stiles takes a deep, controlled breath, as he bites back on his retort. It’s clear to him snapping back at Derek won’t help the situation. With that, he spreads out the papers and starts to assess the damage. 

“Ugh, this one is completely fucked,” Stiles says to himself. “But it looks like it’s the only one that got it bad.” 

“What are you saying?” Derek calls from the kitchen.

Stiles is distracted when he calls back to him with a confused, “What?”, before looking up from his papers.

“I said ‘What did you say?’” Derek says, slowly and deliberately, almost like Stiles does with some of his students.

Stiles narrows his eyes as he watches Derek retreat from the kitchen and closer to his spot on the couch. He takes another one of those calming breaths. _Lydia would be so proud_ he thinks and decides to let it go.

“I’m just talking to myself,” Stiles says, voice as neutral as he can manage before he looks back down to his work.

“Of course,” Derek scoffs. “Why would you talk to me?” 

Stiles snaps his head up - his frustration with this conversation rising with every second. 

“Derek, what is this? Are you trying to start a fight?”

“No!” Derek snaps back, “but it feels like you are. I mean you tell me what is this all about, Stiles. Especially right before I leave.”

Stiles stands and walks towards Derek. “What are you talking about? I _literally_ just got here and you’re the one getting mad at me!”

“Me?” Derek says.

“Yes, you. The second I walked through the door you started griping at me about nonsense.”

“Nonsense? Oh good to know you think spending time with your fiancé is nonsense,” Derek says and stalks out of the kitchen.

Stiles holds back a shout and runs his hands roughly through his hair. “I hate it when you do that,” He says and follows behind him. 

“That’s not, at all, what’s happening here,” Stiles says as he reaches their bedroom. “Why are you making this into something that it’s not?”

It takes everything in Stiles to hold back the _“again”_ that he wants to add to the end of that sentence. Derek just stares at him for a long, tense moment. Stiles stares back and his skin itches with anticipation.

“I’m not,” Derek says. And Stiles bristles at the way Derek's voice has gone quiet. He watches Derek as he walks to their room and pick up his bag, wary, knowing that this quiet anger usually leads to more arguing. 

“I just wanted to see you before I left.” Derek says finally. Stiles sighs and moves to stand behind him. He’s not sure how he’s managed to feel like the guilty one here. 

“Hey, wait,” He says, and stops him from picking up his bag. “Stop. Wait.”

He turns Derek around to look at him and sighs. “Hey,” He says and leans in to kiss him. It’s a brief, tense peck but Stiles hopes it momentarily delescaltes whatever fight this is trying to turn into. 

“You know I always want to spend time with you.”

Derek huffs out a dry laugh and pulls out of Stiles grasp and bends over to pick up his bag. Stiles feels any hope of this being put to rest slip away as Derek walks away.

“We’ve had tonight on the books for ages and you couldn’t even make it here on time,” Derek says.

“Derek, I was busy.” Stiles says.

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Derek says, shaking his head. “For months now, you’ve been so focused on it seems like everything else but this,” He says and gestures a hand between himself and Stiles. “Your student’s, your social calendar. Everything - you put before us.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth slightly opened with shock. He shakes his head and scoffs.

“Derek, I don’t do this to you when you blow me off for work.”

“That’s because it rarely ever happens,” Derek says. He bends over to grab a separate backpack from near the sofa before he heads out the door. 

“If you would just manage your time better,” Derek says. 

“We can’t all live our lives down to 15 minute intervals,” Stiles snaps. He can see the muscles in Derek’s back tense even more and he sighs out a heavy breath and follows behind him. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t hear my phone. I’ve just got a lot to do before next week. Especially since I’m going to be gone for a while. I mean we’re lucky that I got the approval to take all that time off.”

“Again,” Derek says, seemingly ignoring his point on purpose. He pauses to look around for something. “These dates have been the same for a while now.” 

“Well, what was the plan, Derek?” Stiles says, upset all over again. “It’s not like you cooked dinner. So what was it? Another night of take out and Netflix? Sorry I was late for the same old shit we do every night. Plus, the night is not over. It’s hardly even dark out. Where are you going anyway? Your trip is not supposed to start until the morning.”

Derek spins to look at him, “So, that’s what this is about? You’re having second thoughts about us? Our future too boring for you, Stiles?” 

“What,” Stiles says and rubs his face, frustrated, before he continues, “the _fuck_ are you talking about? Why do you keep putting words in my mouth?”

“I’m just calling it like it is, Stiles,” Derek says. He walks over to the couch and pushes some of Stiles papers away and grabs his phone.

“I just find it convenient that the closer we get to the wedding, the more you start to pull away,” Derek says and walks pass Stiles again. 

Stiles scoffs, “So, you’ve got this all figured out, huh? Just like everything else. It’s your way or no way.”

“How is it ever just my way, Stiles?” Derek shouts.

Stiles lifts up his hand to start counting off things. “Stiles, we’re going to live in this loft because my family owns the building, even if it is on the other side of town from basically everyone we know.”

He points to another finger. “Stiles, no, we can’t adopt the cutest one-eyed kitten in the world, we don’t have time for a pet--”

“I can’t believe you’re still holding on to that cat thing,” Derek interrupts.

“AND,” Stiles says over him. “Stiles, I love you so much I want to be your partner forever and ever, we’re a team except you don’t get to make any decisions about the wedding.”

“You’ve made plenty of decisions about this wedding!”

“Name one!”

Derek falters for a second, he looks around as if he’s trying to find one thig Stiles has been in charge of. His eyes widen and he points to a plant near the window. “Decor! You picked out the flowers and stuff for the reception.”

Stiles wants to punch him. “Yeah - that was real fun. IT was also fun having your mom and sister there to hover over me, making me second guest all of my choices!”

“You wanted them there!”

“You asked me if they could come!” Stiles shouts. “What was I supposed to say? Besides - that’s not even the point. I didn’t have a say on any of the important stuff, I didn’t even get a say in _when_ we got married.” 

“It’s a tradition, Stiles,” Derek cuts in again. 

“We’re getting married on Christmas! _Fucking Christmas_ , like assholes. And in that creepy, old ass, cold, haunted church!”

“You’ve always known how much tradition means to my family Stiles,” Derek shouts back. “You knew I was going to want to do that. My family has been getting married at that church for generations. And stop saying it’s haunted!”

“That’s not the point,” Stiles yells. “You made - you always make - these life changing decisions without even talking to me about it.”

“I’d hardly say adopting a stupid cat is life changing,” Derek scoffs.

“Maybe not,” Stiles says, “but the fact that you can’t see how big of an issue this has become is part of the problem.” 

There’s a moment of tense silence.

“Really?” Derek says, voice back to the quiet tone from before. “Our wedding is in a week and you bring this up now?”

“When would you prefer I bring it up?” Stiles asks. “Do you have any time available between telling me what to do and making me feel like shit?”

Derek reels back from him, like someone just tried to hit him. Stiles watches an array of different emotions pass over his face; from anger, to sadness, to guilt before it settles on quiet amusement.

Derek takes a deep breath and bends over to pick up his bags again. Stiles hadn’t even seen him throw them to the ground. 

“Well,” Derek says with a dark huff of laughter, “ Maybe we shouldn’t get married at all.”

Stiles says nothing. Tears threaten to spill over and he tries to blink them away. He can fill the dull ache in his chest that sometimes signals thestart of a panic attack, and he _does not have time for that._ Or this bullshit for that matter. 

He turns his back to Derek just as a tear spills onto his face. He wipes at his face roughly and takes a deep, shaky breath in. 

“Well if that’s how you feel, Derek. Don’t bother coming back,” Stiles says as steadily as he can muster.

There’s a long tense silence. 

Stiles stares down at the mess of papers on the coffee table. Then he hears Derek’s muffled footsteps move further away before the front door opens and then closes quietly. 

+

After Derek leaves, Stiles starts drinking, and he’s three beers in when Scott shows up. It’s fortunate that he’s coming from the bathroom because he almost pisses himself when he finds him rummaging through the refrigerator. 

“Jesus,” Stiles says once his heart has found its way back from his throat. “How did you get in here?”

Scott smiles as he stands pulling back a bottle of vodka and an armful of old take out containers.

“I have a key,” He says brightly. “But also, the door was unlocked.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes and walks over to his beer. He looks down at the assortment of old containers on the counter and raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you even doing?” He asks and gestures to the bottle of vodka and take out. 

“It’s part: 0 of your bachelor party,” Scott says. 

“Part of my bachelor party includes raiding my fridge for old take out?” Stiles asks, voice deadpanned. Scott rolls his eyes.

“It’s zero because it wasn’t apart of the plan technically, but whatever. Lyds is on her way so the take out fest and the binge drinking can soon begin! But I’m sort of hungry now, so I want to see if any of this is edible.”

Stiles sighs and sits on one of the bar stools. He puts his chin in his hands and gloomily peaks into all of the leftover containers. 

“Well you can call off the rest of the weekend festivities,” Stiles says. “I’m pretty sure the wedding is off.”

“Yeah, I heard you and Derek had a fight,” Scott says, his voice strained as he reaches to the top of the cabinet for three glasses. 

Stiles shoots him a suspicious look. 

“Jackson told me.”

Stiles’ suspicion deepens. “You and Jackson hate each other.”

“I know,” Scott says as he sits down the three glasses. “So you can imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from him telling me I had to help fix it so Derek could stop ruining his buzz.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Which I think is a cry for help in Jackson-speak.” Scott continues. 

Stiles scoffs and reaches in one of the containers for a cold egg roll. He eyes it skeptically for a moment before deciding its probably okay to eat. 

“So, you want to tell me what happened?”

“No,” Stiles says and then stuffs the whole egg roll into his mouth.

Scott smirks, “Derek’s a lucky man I see.” 

Stiles coughs, choking on the egg roll. He gives Scott the middle finger with one hand while the other one beats at his chest in effort to help clear his airway.

Scott smiles and calmly walks around. He sits down next to Stiles and turns to him and slaps him hard across the back. Stiles sputters and coughs before taking in a deep, clearing gasp of air. 

“I hate you,” he croaks. 

“You love me,” Scott says and reaches over the counter for two of the glasses and the bottle of vodka. 

He pours some of the clear liquid into the glasses and hands one over to Stiles. 

“You don’t have any mixers so this will have to do,” Scott says and raises his own. “To you and Derek.”

Stiles frowns, but Scott continues on before he can object.

“You two may not be perfect. And he may be the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

“Are you trying to help me right now?” Stiles interjects.

“But I’ve never seen two people love one another the way you two do,” Scott continues. “And that’s important.”

Scott lowers his glass a bit and takes in a deep breath. “I know tonight was hard. Hell, this whole month has been hard and stressful. But you don’t have to do this alone. You’re behind on grading papers? I’ll grade some.”

“Scott,” Stiles starts. 

“I know, I know. I’m sure you have the perfect reason to shut me down, but whatever, the point is you’re not in this alone,” Scott finishes. He raises his glass again. 

“So, to Stiles and Derek,” he says and clinks his glass against Stiles’, “who are going to make it down that isle if it’s the last thing I do.” 

Stiles huffs a bitter laugh and downs the vodka in one go. 

Scott coughs after his own shot and reaches for his phone on the counter. “Gotta text Lydia and tell her to get some mixers.”

“Wuss,” Stiles laughs and reaches over Scott to grab the bottle from him. He pulls a swig of it and hops off the stool and heads to the couch. “Now come and help me deepen my students hatred for Shakespeare.”

+

Stiles and Scott are doubled over in laughter reading an essay from a student who clearly only watched the movie version of the Shakespeare play when Lydia walks in.

“He’s even describing their outfits,” Scott says, hardly able to speak at this point. 

Stiles takes the paper from his hand. He wipes a tear from his eye and shakes his head. “I feel like passing him just for the laugh.”

“And who says Freshman English teachers are no fun?”

They both look up to find Lydia armed with bags that make clinking noises every time she takes a step.

“Lyds!” Scott says excitedly and jumps up, “Here, let me take those.”

Lydia hands them over to him and then continues walking towards Stiles. Her eyes scan over the mess of papers as she neatly folds herself onto the floor next to Stiles. 

“Stiles,” She starts. 

“Before you say anything, Is this therapist Lydia or my best friend Lydia?”

“I’m your best friend,” Scott yells from the kitchen. There’s a loud clunk and then the sound of glass breaking. 

“Um, I’ll clean that up,” Scott says quickly.

Lydia rolls her eyes, her attention back to Stiles. “I can be both. Well technically I can't because I’m a psychiatrist, not a therapist, but for the sake of this enlightening conversation I’m sure we’re about to have -- I can be both.” 

“I don’t want both,” Stiles whispers and leans in to her. She automatically pulls him in close for a hug. 

“Fine,” she says with an annoyed sigh. “Friend Lydia thinks Derek is being a stupid jerk and doesn’t deserve you.”

Stiles snorts. “Thanks.”

Lydia pulls away a second later and looks him in the eye. “But Friend Lydia also knows he adores you, and that’s worth a whole lot in my book.”

Stiles nods and lets Lydia pull him in for another hug. 

When they pull apart Scott puts down several bottles of alcohol on the table in front of them, careful to avoid the remaining papers. 

“Okay, I feel like this should get us through the night,” Scott says and smiles down at the selection of booze. He points down at the smaller stack of papers on the coffee table. “Or at least the rest of this stack.”

“Truth,” Stiles says gloomily and stares at the papers. “Alright, let me get this over with.”

He reaches for the paper he and Scott had been reading, but pulls his hand away quickly when Lydia smacks it. “Ouch- what are you doing?”

Lydia stands and bends over the table to collect all the papers from the table. “These can wait until tomorrow.” 

“Lyds, I can’t-,” Stiles starts.

“Plus! We have a full day of things to do tomorrow,” Scott chimes in. Lydia shoots him a glare.

“Scott, remember what I told you about helping?”

“Yeah, don’t,” Scott says glumly and starts to pour more vodka into their glasses. 

Lydia turns her attention back to Stiles.

“You deserve a night off,” She says and then glances at the papers. “And your students deserve a fair and _sober_ grading.”

“Do they?” Stiles whines as he watches her tuck the essays into her purse. 

“Yes,” She smiles and accepts the glass that Scott hands her. “Thank you. Up, up, up.”

Stiles lets Lydia drag him to his feet and he takes the newly offered drink from Scott. Lydia purses her lips in thought for a moment before she raises her glass in front of her. 

“To Stiles and Derek, may your love continue to be sickenly ridiculous to the rest of us,” She says and clinks her glass against his and Scott’s glass. Scott scoffs and takes a swig of his drink.

Stiles just laughs and takes a pull from his own drink. 

“Really? You had to think about that?,” He asks after his own sip. 

“No, but I’m saving my good ones for my best man’s speech.”

 _“I’m the best man_ ,” Scott exclaims. 

“Take it down to a 7, McCall,” Lydia says and takes a seat on the couch. “I mean I’m saving them for when you frantically come to me for help writing it.”

She smiles serenely up at him, Scott just glares back at her, and Stiles leaves them to it. He heads to the kitchen in search of some take out menus. 

“What are we feeling? Chinese? Pizza? That new Korean BBQ place is pretty good.”

“Chinese,” Scott says at the same time Lydia says “Indian food.”

“That wasn’t even an option,” Scott protests. 

“It is always an option,” Lydia says and makes grabby hands at the menus. Stiles hands them over without complaint and pats Scott on the head as he passes over him to sit down.

“Why are we friends with her again?”

“Probably, because she single handedly saved us from flunking out of college freshman year,” Stiles says and picks up his drink. 

“And our actual lives that one time,” he adds. 

“We were not going to die. I had it under control.”

Stiles looks over just in time to see Lydia roll her eyes. He smiles into his glass.

“And she knows I don’t like surprises.”

“Whatever, at least _she_ likes surprises,” Scott mutters. 

“No one likes surprises, Scott,” Lydia deadpans, lifting her phone to her ear. 

“What is _wrong_ with you people,” Scott exclaims, but Lydia waves him off and starts to order food.

Stiles just laughs and pulls Scott in to a one-armed hug.

“Don’t worry Scotty, we love you anyway.” Stiles says and plants a kiss to the top of his forehead.

“Fine, but I’m ordering the food next time,” Scott says and reaches for Stiles drink. Stiles lets him with a smile. 

“Okay, food should be here soon,” Lydia says as she puts her phone on the table and turns to face them. 

“What kind of getting over it are we in for tonight? Are we crying it out with Mandy Moore and Shane West? Or is this a dance party type thing?”

“No one is crying here tonight,” Scott says and pulls out his phone. “I’ll be DJ.”

“He’s just mad because he cried the hardest last time,” Stiles says. 

“HE WAS HER MIRACLE, YOU HEARTLESS BASTARD,” Scott yells and stands from the couch as Lydia and Stiles fall into a fit of laughter. Soon the familiar opening of a Lizzo song comes on and Scott throws his hands in the air in victory. 

Lydia and Stiles share one more look before they let Scott drag them to their feet.

They spend a good forty-five minutes, laughing, twirling each other in circles, and attempting to twerk on beat before they hear a loud banging over the music. 

“Food’s here!” Lydia says and bounds off towards the door. Scott turns down the music a little while Stiles clears some of the booze away from the table so they can have a place to eat. 

As Lydia sets everything up, Scott refreshes their beverages. Stiles idles near the sofa and stares down at his phone. 

“I should call him,” Stiles says. 

“I wouldn’t, dude,” Scott says. He sits the current drinks he’s making down to turn down the volume even more. “I mean we’ve been drinking, and who knows what mood he’s in at this point. Especially with only Jackson to keep him company on the road.” Scott shudders dramatically and Lydia rolls her eyes again. Scott continues. “I think you both need the night to sleep on it.”

“Wait, he and Jackson are driving there tonight? I thought everyone was supposed to leave in the morning. Together.” 

“I think that was the plan, but Jackson said Derek’s dad and cousins and Peter are going to drive up in the morning,” Scott says and then shrugs. “He didn’t really say why they were leaving tonight though.”

“I agree with Scott. It is pretty late,” Lydia said looking at her watch. “And I’m pretty sure they are doing some ridiculous sunrise hike in the morning.” 

“Ugh,” Scott says and resumes is drink making. “Of course they are.”

“Wait, Jackson called you too,” Stiles says, suddenly distressed knowing that Derek was so angry that Jackson reached out to his nemesis _and_ his ex-girlfriend. Lydia shrugs. 

“Stiles your bachelor party is going to be so much better. Shit, I need mint leaves.” Scott says, oblivious to Stiles’ internal freak out as he walks off to the kitchen. “Stiles, you have mint leaves, right?”

Stiles doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his phone. 

“We said some pretty messed up things before he left,” He whispers. 

“Things that you meant,” She says, and Stiles can’t tell if it’s a question or not, but he shakes his head anyway.

“Not really. I love our life together. I love that he’s a bit more traditional and structured. We work for that reason, specifically, I think,” Stiles says.

“I mean, not just that reason, but you know,” He continues in a rush. He takes a deep breath, “We makes sense to us.”

Lydia smiles softly, “I’m sure he knows that, Stiles.”

Before Stiles can reply, Scott comes back with his arm extended, proudly brandishing the new drink. “So, I’m not one hundred percent sure what I just put in that, but it tastes fine to me.”

“How comforting,” Lydia says and reaches for her existing drink. 

Stiles discreetly pockets his phone and rises, “I’m going to wash my hands before we eat,” He says and excuses himself. 

Once he’s behind the closed door he pulls out his phone and clicks through to Derek’s number. 

It feels like it rings for an extremely long time, and Stiles holds his breath, before finally Derek’s voicemail greeting plays. 

He sighs, his lips turn up into a small smile at the dry greeting he loves to make fun of Derek about. 

“Hi,” Stiles says after the beep. “I, um, wanted to apologize for tonight. I mean we both said some things we probably shouldn’t have but-”

Stiles pauses and takes in a deep breath. “We can’t take it back. But I don’t want to either. We both deserve, honesty, and truth and, um, you know, a fair shot at this.

So what? We’ve got some shit to work on,” Stiles says and shrugs, “Who doesn’t? But I know I’m the luckiest man in the world knowing I get to figure it out by your side for the rest of our lives.” 

Stiles wipes at a tear that’s fallen and he sniffles a little bit before he sighs. “Okay, well have fun this weekend and be safe. Call me if you get a chance and, um, I’ll see you when you get home.”

Stiles pauses. “I love you Der--” The message is interrupted by the automated machine telling him to send his message or record a new one. He’s just about to press the option to record a new one when there’s a banging on the door. 

“Are you calling Derek?” Scott shouts from the other side of the door

“No,” Stiles lies, his finger hovering over the keypad.

“Stiles!”

“I’m taking a dump leave me alone.”

Scott jiggles the handle violently, and Stiles makes a quick choice to send the unfinished message. He unlocks the door and Scott almost falls into him. 

Scott looks him in the eye, sniffs, and then narrows his eyes.

“It doesn’t smell like poop in here,” Scott says quietly.

“Gross,” Stiles says and pushes him out of the way with a palm to his face. 

“Ew, dude wash your hands!” Scott says behind him. 

Stiles just keeps walking.

As he sits, Lydia doesn’t say anything. She hands him a plate and some plasticware, carefully looking down at the options of food.

After a beat of silence she speaks.

“How do you feel now?”

“Like I’m talking to a therapist,” Stiles mutters and reaches over her to grab a carton of rice. 

She huffs out a small laugh and nods.

“How odd … since I'm a psychiatrist. Did he pick up?”

“No,” Stiles says and piles some rice on to his plate.

“Good,” Scott says coming back to the table. “You two need to listen to me more.”

“I left him a voicemail,” Stiles continues. He shrugs at the annoyed look on Scott’s face and turns to Lydia. Her face doesn’t really give anything away, but he can tell she’s one ‘how does that make you feel’ away from going into full psychoanalyzing mode. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“Guys, can we be done with this? I called him. It’s over. Let’s move on.”

Stiles looks between the two of them and waits for them to say something. When they don’t he nods and reaches for the container of tikki masala.

“Great, then let’s eat.”

“And drink! Oh! Let’s play a drinking game,” Scott says excitedly. 

Stile laughs and sits back with his now full plate.

“And what time do we have to be up tomorrow?” Lydia asks

Scott waves her off. 

“We’ll be fine. Let me go get shot glasses.”

“Famous last words,” Stiles says before he takes a bite of his food. 

+

Stiles wakes up when Scott falls out of the bed. 

“Fuck,” Scott groans from the floor. 

Stiles sits up to stare at him. Well, he tries to, but his head seems to weigh 3 times what it normally does. So he mostly just hears Scott crawl to the bathroom - luckily in time - to throw up into the toilet. 

“Ugh, close the door,” Stiles groans, his stomach turning at the sound of his best friend retching.

“Shut up,” Scott groans.

“Maybe _those_ are his last words,” Lydia says. Stiles looks up towards the doorway. “Because it sounds like he’s dying in there.” 

“How?” Stiles croaks. He makes grabby-hands at the holder of coffee shes holding. 

“How what?” She asks as she gives one of the sleeved coffees to him. 

“How are you alive and looking like that?” 

Lydia looks down at the outfit of tights and what seems to be one of Stiles t-shirts. A sight that would have drove his teenage self crazy.

“It’s not human, Stiles,” Scott moans from the bathroom. “Don’t trust it.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and leans over to grab Stiles into a sitting position before he spills hot coffee all over his face. “Well one of us, had to make sure we were all up before your future sister in-laws saw you in this debaucherous state.

“I also got us croissants and coffee after my spin class.”

Stiles just stares at her for a long moment. “Scott is right. You are not human.”

Lydia just rolls her eyes and walks back out of the room.

Stiles takes another gulp of the hot coffee before he gathers enough energy to walk over to the bathroom. 

“You alright, Scotty?” 

Scott waves him off and mumbles something about a shower. 

Stiles leaves him to it and heads out to the kitchen to find Lydia. She’s contentedly scrolling through her phone and sipping on her coffee. 

He reaches past her to get a croissant out of the bag.

“You hear back from Derek?” She asks nonchalantly. 

Stiles stomach does a flip and he looks around for his phone. “Shit,” He mutters has he puts his drink and food down on the counter. He walks back to his room to get his phone, where it normally is, from the bedside table. 

“Lyds,” Stiles calls as he stoops down to look under the bed. “You see my phone out there?” 

He’s searching around the bedsheets when Lydia replies. 

“Yeah it’s out here,” She says. “And it’s dead.” 

Stiles stands up too quickly and his vision swims for a second as he quickly pads back out of the room. He almost doesn’t register that Lydia has tossed his phone to him, and barely catches it before it crashes into his nose. 

He walks over to the charger he keeps in the kitchen and pretends to be calm as he waits for it to power up. If the way Lydia eyes him as he does his “I’m-not-pacing” pacing across the kitchen is any indication, then he’s probably not fooling anyone. 

“Here,” Lydia says and hands him his coffee and croissant back, “do something else with your hands. You’re being weird.”

“You’re weird,” Stiles grumbles as he takes the food and drink from her. He takes a sip and then almost spits it out and drops everything in his haste to grab his phone as it turns back on. 

“Come on, come on,” he says. He taps his fingers nervously against the screen as his phone loads. 

“Anything?” Lydia asks.

He’s about to say no, because he’s never really seen his phone take this long to load, when it suddenly explodes with notifications. 

“What is all that?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. He tries to click on one of the notifications when an incoming call from Laura comes in. 

“Fuck, what time were we supposed to meet everyone today?”

“I don’t know. Scott was being really sketchy about what we were doing this weekend. Why?”

Stiles sighs, “Because I’m pretty sure I’m about to be yelled at for something,” he says as he swipes to answer the phone. 

“Laura, hey!” Stiles says and reaches for his coffee. “Sorry we’re late, Scott --”

“Stiles,” Laura says and his blood runs cold. He can hear her sobbing. 

“Laura what is it? What’s wrong?” What happened?”

There’s a loud scrape as Lydia gets up from her chair.

“Stiles,” Laura sobs again. 

“Laura please, Talk to me what happ--”

“Derek,” She says, her voice a choked gasp. “He’s dead. Derek is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was frustrating to write. I sat on it for a long time because I wasn't happy with the silly fight between Derek and Stiles. But I think it sets up a foundation for later chapters so i ultimately kept it *mostly* the same. I hope you enjoyed. Let me know if you did! Thanks again for reading.


	4. Present Day - Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Let me start by thanking you all for reading my little story. Please know your kudos and comments mean the world to me.
> 
> That being said, please let me reiterate that this is a work in progress story. I do not have it outlined nor do I know how it will end. I'm getting there, but i simply can't give you some answers right now.
> 
> However, I do know that it will definitely involve the current four relationships in the tags. As more happen, I will add them. 
> 
> I never intended to mislead anyone by promising them something that's a drop in the bucket in the story. 
> 
> I also, as an avoider of WIPs myself, understand that it's not for everyone. So no hard feelings if you abandon the read now. I thank you for your attention thus far. 
> 
> Okay - now that that's out of the way. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Stiles stares down at his plate of untouched eggs. They grew cold some time ago; his appetite gone, dissipating with Boyd’s retreat.

As he sits, his mind wanders. A mess of thoughts circle around his not-so-locked-anymore box of all-things-Derek. He can practically feel it rattle, frail and weak, ready to burst open and flood him with memories of his dead fiance. His  _ maybe  _ dead fiance.

He closes his eyes as a memory slips out. 

_ His hands are wet and sticky from the coffee on the floor. He can’t really feel them, but he can tell from the way they detach from the floor when Lydia tries to pick him up off the ground.  _

_ “Stiles, what happened? Talk to me. SCOTT!” She yells.  _

_ Stiles thinks he tries to tell her. He opens his mouth to tell her, but there’s a loud scream that drowns him out. It sounds familiar to his ears.  _

Stiles closes his eyes tighter, gives his head a shake, and tries to steady his breathing. He’s starting to lose count of the number of panic, or near-panic, attacks that he’s had over the past 24 hours. He’s exhausted. 

He can feel they anxiety trickle through his veins like little ants marching along his skin. He clenches, and then un-clenches his fist before he gives his arms a little shake trying to rid them of the sensation. 

He opens his eyes and stares some more at the pale, yellow-brown food on the plate, and his stomach turns. He stands and grabs his plate of eggs and tosses the whole thing into the garbage. 

The sound of the plate breaking as it’s dropped inside makes him still.

He looks down slowly into the bottom of the trash and just stares at the broken pieces of the plate. It’s just the plate with bits of egg. But the sight of the sharp shards release a fleeting moment of intense freedom inside of him. It almost takes his breath away.

His eyes trail up and around the kitchen and suddenly it’s like he’s surrounded by reminders of Derek. All of this is his. When Stiles and Derek moved in together, he’d brought essentially a TV and his toothbrush from his old apartment, both of which Derek made him throw out eventually. 

Impulse driven, Stiles retrieves the rest of the plates from the cabinet, and drops them all into the trash. They crack against each other with a satisfying crash and Stiles lets the adrenaline spur him onto the next cabinet.

He finds more plates inside and throws them away too, along with some bowls and glassware. His breathing speeds up as he makes his way around the kitchen, starting new trash bags when necessary, and tossing everything in sight away without worry.

The manic elation turns slightly to remorse when he moves on to the mugs. He hesitates for a second remembering how fond Derek was of his collection. Memories of early mornings of domestic bliss force their way out of his memory box. His eyes land on the ‘Wolf Pack Life’ mug and he thinks of Derek’s mouth curving into a smile around the rim of it. He thinks of the nerdy look of pure joy when he would find a rare new mug to add to his collection. Stiles used to make fun of him for it. 

His box of all-things-Derek shakes open a little more and Stiles aches with grief. 

He closes his eyes tight against the wave of emotion. Blindly, and a little frantic, he reaches for a mug and throws it into a new garbage bag. That feeling disappears when the mug shatters as it hits the bottom.

“You loved it so much, you should have come back to get them, you asshole,” Stiles says gruffly, blinking away the lapse in emotion from his eyes.

He throws the mugs in one at a time, each bit more forceful than the next time, enjoying the sound of ceramic cracking as they hit the growing pile. 

He’s so lost in it he doesn’t hear the door open, or the person call out his name, and he startles and screams when a hand wraps around his wrist as he’s about to throw in another mug.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” he gasps, relief instantly flooding through him at the sight of Cora.

“Yeah, I can ask you the same thing,” She says and looks around. Stiles follows her gaze. To be honest, he’s a little taken aback by the number of trash bags he’s filled. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, pulling his arm out of her grip. 

“Well, it seemed pretty clear after the first hour that you weren’t coming,” She says surveying the mess closer. “Especially when Boyd showed up without you. Are these my brother's things?”

“And you’re here to what?” Stiles asks, ignoring her question. “Drag me over there yourself?”

Cora looks up from the bags. “No, you twit. I came to check on you. Make sure you hadn’t done anything stupid since you’ve suddenly seemed to have forgotten how to answer your phone.”

Stiles looks around, he’s honestly not even sure where his phone is. 

“And clearly, I’m too late,” Cora says, walking slowly through the messy kitchen. “What are you even doing. Is all of this stuff Dereks?”

“I’m just doing some cleaning,” Stiles says. “I’m thinking of making the kids do an essay on minimalism so, um, I’m getting some ideas.”

Cora just stares at him. 

Stiles stares back.

“It could not be him,” Cora says quietly. “We can’t be sure. Not unless we go and see for ourselves.”

“Well, be sure and call me when you find out,” Stiles says and turns his back to her, intent on continuing with his “cleaning”.

“Stiles, you have to come with us,” Cora says. 

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Don’t you care at all?”

Stiles flings the bag he’d been holding down to the floor with an alarming crash.

“Why should I, Cora?” He shouts. “He’s been dead for 2 years. Or at least that’s what he wants us to think.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Cora says quietly. Stiles turns to look at her and she’s got tears in her eyes. His face flushes with guilt and he closes his eyes against a new wave of sudden emotion. 

“He wouldn’t do that,” Cora says again. Her voice closer. 

Stiles opens his eyes and smiles sadly at her. He nods. 

“He would,” He says, his voice catching. “Especially since the last thing I told him was to not bother coming back.” 

Tears spill out as he closes his eyes. He has to lean against the counter for support as his knees start to give out and he sways a little bit. Cora is there in an instant, her arms around his waist. 

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

They slide down to sit on the floor, limbs tangling around each other supporting and comforting. And Stiles tells her all about the stupid fight, the terrible things he and Derek said to each other. He tells her about the voicemail.

“And I’m not even sure he ever heard it,” Stiles says after a long pause. “So for all I know, he died thinking I hated him.”

“He would never think that, Stiles,” Cora says. “Derek is stubborn, not stupid.”

Stiles just shrugs. He wipes a few stray tears away from his face as he starts to stand. “It doesn’t matter now anyway.” 

“What do you mean?” Cora asks from the floor.

“He’s dead, Cora,” Stiles says. He walks to retrieve the trash bag. “I can’t bring him back to life and ask him if he got my drunken apology message.” 

“But we can go find out if he’s still alive, then you can--”

“Then I can what?” Stiles says. He’s angry all of a sudden, and his vision swims with it in a dizzying haze. He grabs the counter again for balance. “What am I supposed to do if we find him alive and well?”

He chances a glance at her, takes in her expressionless face and continues. “Am I supposed to run into his arms, thank the heavens for our good fortune and ride into the fucking sunset like nothing ever happened?”

“Stiles,” Cora starts, but Stiles talks over her.

“Because something  _ did _ happen. Dead or alive, it’s been two goddamn years and he hasn’t been here, Cora. And I--”

His voice breaks. He clears his voice and turns to face her fully. He can do this. 

“And I’m moving on with my life, Cora. I have to.”

“This is about Boyd?” Cora asks, her voice sounds incredulous. Heat flares up in his bones, and anger must show on his face because Cora quickly puts her hand up, as though in defense. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. But, Stiles, Boyd is in. He wants to go and find Derek.”

“Well good for him,” Stiles deadpans.

It’s Cora’s turn to get angry. 

“So that’s it. All those years you’re just going to throw away. Just like you’re throwing away all my brothers shit?” She says waving her hands around the mess of bags. 

“Why do you care,” Stiles shouts. “It’s not like he’s coming back for it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do!”

“How?”

“Because if he loved me at all he would have come back here,” Stiles says. “He would have found his way back here. To me. To his home, his family. And he didn’t. He’s gone.” 

“Something could be wrong, there could be a reason. He could be in trouble,” Cora says. Stiles can tell she’s thought about this, all the possible reasons why he wouldn’t have come home if he was alive. He can tell how exhausted she is, mentally and physically, reaching for any way to make this real. 

He shakes his head and turns his back to her again. He moves to tie up one of the trash bags and lets the sound of the shifting glass and ceramic fill the tense silence.

“Stiles, please,” Cora says after a few more moments of silence. Her voice is smaller than he’s ever heard before. “I can’t do this without you.”

His mind drifts back to when Boyd said that to him that morning. 

“I think you and Boyd overestimate my usefulness in stressful situations,” Stiles grumbles. 

“You owe it to yourself to get some closure on this too,” Cora says, coming up behind him. “Dead or Alive, you need to see this through, Stiles.”

\+ 

“This is a bad idea,” Peter says, as he leans lazily on the backs of his chair. 

“Well no one else seems to be coming up with a better idea,” Laura snaps. 

“Weird, it seems that there’s no good way to confront a man who may or may not have died two years ago,” Stiles says. Everyone looks at him. Most of them a look of light surprise on their face. He can’t blame them. It’s the first thing he’s said since he’s been here. Maybe even since he begrudgingly left his apartment with Cora. 

“Hm,” Peter says contemplative. He stares at Stiles long enough to make the hairs on his arms rise in discomfort, but Stiles is determined not to look away. Peter finally speaks again, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Let’s use Stiles.”

“What?,” Stiles asks at the same time as Boyd says. “No.”

They look at each other from their spots across the room. It feels weird being so far from him. 

“Explain,” Talia says to Peter. Stiles watches Boyd turn his gaze to her, a look of disbelief on his handsome face. 

“Well, we’ll send Stiles into the little market place Derek seems to frequent. He’ll recognize him, remember where he belongs, and we can all go back to how regularly scheduled lives. Or ...Well,” Peter pauses and looks from Stiles to Boyd. “Not all of us.” 

“That would imply that he simply doesn’t remember us at all,” Stiles says. 

“Why else do you think he wouldn’t come home?” Laura asks.

“Because they had a fight the night of the accident, and he told Derek not to come home,” Cora says.

“Cora!” Stiles exclaims. 

“What? That’s not a secret,” She gestures lazily towards half the table,” I’m sure Scott and Lydia and Boyd knew already.” 

“Not that last part,” Scott mumbles and then flinches when Lydia hits him. 

“I didn’t know that either,” Boyd says quietly. 

“Well, even better,” Peter says. “Maybe seeing Stiles will spark some fit of rage and--”

“God, Peter, shut up,” Stiles says. He puts his face in his hands and rubs at his tired eyes. The room is silent. Presumably everyone there is waiting to see what Stiles will say next. He looks up and stares back at them. He takes a deep breath. 

“What do you need me to do?”

Peter grins. 

Boyd stands up, “Stiles, let’s talk outside.”

“Why? So you can talk him out of it,” Laura says, hotly. “You want to keep him all to yourself?”

“What? No,” Boyd says, distracted, before turning back to him. “Come on, it’ll just be a second.”

“We don’t really have time --” Talia starts. 

“With all due respect, Talia,” Boyd says quietly. “Derek’s been gone for 2 years, I think we can wait another 5 minutes while I talk to my boyfriend. Stiles _ , please. _ ”

The atmosphere seems to shift after the b-bomb. Stiles feels the tension heavy in his chest and in his legs that don’t seem to work as he stands, stiffly, and walks over to Boyd. 

Once outside, Stiles sits on the steps of the back porch and watches Boyd pace. He watches, bewilderment growing with each repetition of steps. He’s rarely ever seen Boyd break a sweat before and now he’s pacing, nervously, on the patch of grass in front of the steps. It makes him feel a little dizzy. 

“You know, I think it’s been longer than a few minutes,” Stiles says. Boyd darts a brief glance at him and then resumes his pacing; back and forth, back and forth. 

Stiles sighs heavily and puts a hand out to stop him as he starts another round. He catches the fabric of his shirt sleeve and grabs it to pull Boyd towards him, making Boyd still. Stiles takes a deep breath and lets his hand slide down to Boyds waist.

“Kiss me,” He says quietly. 

Boyd hesitates. His eyes dart to the thins screen door. The only thing that separates them from the rest of the Hale family and their friends. 

Stiles lets his hand dip into one of the belt loops of Boyd’s jeans and he tugs lightly. Boyd looks back to him, steps in close, and leans down. His big arms bracket in Stiles as he rests his hands on the steps behind Stiles. Stiles smiles before he leans in the remaining few inches and kisses him. It’s short, too short, but they can both sense that they probably have an audience. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Boyd says, his lips still brushing softly against Stiles. 

“What happened to you can’t do this without me,” Stiles says, an attempt at teasing. Boyd must love him because he gives him a pitiful half-smile that he doesn’t really deserve. 

“I mean it, Stiles,” Boyd says. Stiles can feel him trying to pull away and he grips tighter at his shirt. “You don’t have to put yourself through that.”

“And you do?”

Boyd looks away and stands up. The force of it makes Stiles’ hands fall from his waist. Boyd mumbles something that Stiles can’t hear. 

“Um, I don’t think my hearings been the same since that 3 year period I had to listen to the radio on full blast in the Jeep.” Stiles says. Boyd gives him a questioning look. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Speak up. I didn’t hear you .”

“I said I wasn’t there for him the first time,” Boyd says, his eyes won’t quite meet Stiles’. 

“Neither was I,” Stiles says. 

“But you weren’t supposed to be,” Boyd says. “I was, and I let my family, who I hardly even talk to guilt me and to missing my best friends…”

Stiles watches him for a long time. It clicks in.

“You wouldn’t have been able to save him that night Boyd,” Stiles says. He stands and walks until he’s standing right in front of Boyd. “You wouldn’t have changed the accident.”

“You don’t know that,” Boyd whispers, voice harsh. Tears spill onto his face. Stiles heart breaks at the thought of him keeping this to himself, like he knows he has been. “I would have driven the car and maybe I could have--”

“Then you would have been hurt too,” Stiles cuts in. 

“Peter is fine,” Boyd yells, “And Jackson…”

Stiles guts twists painfully at the mention of Jackson. 

“Jackson is alive,” Boyd finishes softly. 

“Yeah, you want to end up like Jackson?” Stiles asks. “You think he’s having the time of his life in that facility in London?”

“Stiles,” Boyd says and tries to walk away from him. 

“No stop,” Stiles says and grabs his arm to pull him back towards him. “Listen, you can’t think like that. The chances of you making any difference to that night, other than another dead person or another person injured beyond repair is much more likely than you somehow miraculously missing the patch of black ice and not rolling down the side of a mountain.” 

They stare at each other, Stiles chest rising and falling sharply as he calms down. 

“I hear you,” Boyd says quietly, “but I need to see this through.”

“And I’m going with you.”

“Why are you so eager all of a sudden to go?” Boyd snaps.

“Why do you suddenly not want me there?” Stiles snaps back. 

They stare, again.

“Why do they just keep looking at each other,” Stiles hears Peter drawl. 

Boyd’s nostrils flare up and he takes a deep breath in. He closes his eyes, and Stiles can practically hear him counting down in his head. He puts a hand on Boyd’s chest, finding comfort in the steady beat of his heart. 

“We both need this,” Stiles says after a while. Boyd opens his eyes and looks down at him. “We need this closure.”

Stiles leans in and plants a kiss just below Boyd’s jawline and steps away. He walks back inside the house. 

He ignores the scrape of chairs sliding back into place as he opens the door and the look of guilt on his friends' faces.

He looks at Peter and then at Talia. 

“I’ll do it,” Stiles says. There’s an annoyed sigh that signals Boyd followed behind him. “With a few conditions.”

Talia nods and Stiles continues. 

“Just me, Lydia, Scott, and Boyd,” He says and is immediately met with shouts from the room.

“Screw that! I’m going,” Laura shouts. 

“Okay, I get why Laura can’t go,” Cora says. Ignoring her sisters heated glare. “But why can’t I go?”

“Do I have to remind you that I’m the one that found him. If anything I should be the only one going,” Peter adds.

“Peter, if you wanted to find him by yourself you would have done it already. You’ve done your part and we all thank you for that,” Stiles says. He looks around to the rest of the Hale family. 

Laura stresses him out on a good day, and the idea of being trapped in a car with her frightens him a bit. The rest of them, well...

“I can’t bare to see you go through the pain of losing him again. If it’s not him,” Or if it is, he adds mentally. 

“So what? You think you’re doing us a favor?” Laura snaps. “He’s _our_ brother. _Our_ family. Not yours!”

“Laura! That’s uncalled for and untrue,” Robert says. He looks at Stiles sympathetically. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, and tries to mentally shake off the bone-deep hurt he feels. He knows Laura didn’t mean it, but if he’s honest he hasn’t felt apart of their family for some time now. 

“You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that,” Stiles says then looks around at his own father and then to his friends. “You wouldn’t have called any of us if you thought that any of us considered Derek, and all of you, anything less than family.” 

“Regardless of that,” Laura says. “You don’t get to dictate who goes and who--”

“Laura,” Talia says, her voice quiet. “That’s enough sweetheart.”

Laura looks at her mom like she’s just been betrayed, and then without another word she pushes back her chair with enough force to tip it over as she stands and storms out of the room. 

“I’ve got it,” Robert says, exchanging a look with his wife before he stands to follow her. He squeezes Stiles shoulder as he walks past him. 

Once the sound of Roberts footsteps dissipate, there’s silence in the room for a long time. 

“Stiles. Are you sure about this, son?” 

Stiles turns to look at his father. His heart beats uncomfortably a the look of worry etched deep in his father's face. Stiles’ already weak resolve crumbles a little bit more with the urge to let his father wrap him up and make it better for him. 

Stiles shakes. “No,” and offers his dad and unsteady smile, “but there’s no use and sitting here discussing the best plan for a lose-lose situation.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks.

“Either we get there and it’s not him,” Stiles starts.

“Or we get there and it  _ is _ him,” Peter says. 

“Then we’re faced with the fact that he stayed there and didn’t tell anyone, or try and find us, or he doesn’t remember us at all,” Lydia says. 

“Listen, I’m sure I can call this in to the local police,” His dad starts. “Where is this place again? I might know some of the--”

“Noah,” Talia says, cutting him off. “We don’t want to scare him away. Regardless of his reasoning for being there, we don’t think we need to get the police involved just yet. That being said, I insist that I join you, Stiles.”

Stiles panics as he gets a mental image of Talia Hale riding in his Jeep. Boyd saves him from having to think about that further. 

“Talia, I agree with Stiles, We don’t want to put you guys through that if you don’t have to. We can call you the second we know anything concrete. Please,” he adds. “Let us do this for you.” 

He and Talia share a long look and then finally, she nods.

“When do you plan on leaving?” She asks.

“Tomorrow morning, if we can,” Stiles says as he looks around for agreement.

“Works for us,” Lydia says, tilting her head in Scott’s direction. He gives her a warm smile.

Stiles nods. “We’re going to go. I should pack a bag and, um, get some sleep before tomorrow.”

He looks at Boyd and gestures towards the door, but he only makes it one step before his Dad calls out to him.

“Stiles,” He stands. “I’ll give you a ride home.” 

“Dad you don’t have to. Boyd will--”

“I know, I insist.”

He turns to Boyd, who smiles tightly at him. “Call me when you’re ready.” Boyd says softly. Stiles nods and motions to the door. 

“Alright, daddio. Leggo,” Stiles says. His dad just looks disappointed. “What? What did I say?”

+

Stiles expects a lecture, he expects his dad to try and persuade him into not going, or letting him tag along, or letting him help in anyway. He does not expect stiff silence. And he does not expect it to last as long as it does. 

They are awkwardly sitting, in silence, in the parking lot of his building, when Stiles finally breaks. 

“Um, do you, uh, want to come up?” 

His dad nods and opens his car door. Stiles shakes his head at this bizarre turn of events as he follows behind him. 

He’d forgotten about his little bout of insanity earlier that morning, and startles at the sight of all the bags in his kitchen. “Oh,” he says simply and turns to his dad. “Want a beer?”

Noah stares from his son and to the mess in the kitchen. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something and then shuts it back. “Sure son.”

Stiles steps around the bags and, unsurprisingly, shards of broken glass to get to the fridge. He grabs a whole six pack. He has a feeling he’s going to be having more than one of them tonight. 

“Let’s go over there,” he said and points to the couch. He waves a distracted hand behind him “ and let's pretend this, um, never mind.” 

Stiles puts the beer on the table and then sits down. 

His dad groans a little as he sits. They sit in silence for a few more moments before Stiles can’t take it anymore. 

“Spit it out, Dad,” He says and then takes a long pull from his beer. 

His Dad looks shocked for a brief moment and then clears his throat. 

“Son, it’s not just the Hales that shouldn’t have to go through losing Derek again.”

Stiles scratches at the label on his beer bottle.

“I know you don’t like to talk to me about it,” His Dad says. “ But I remember how you were when he died, or disappeared, or--”

He trails off. 

“Dad, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, that’s what you keep saying,” He says, “but Stiles I was there too. And I saw the look in your eyes. I could feel your pain as soon as you walked into a room, kiddo.”

“What am I supposed to do, Dad?”

“Laura’s plan --”

“Was garbage. We all knew it. Peter was just the only one to say it.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to always be a hero.”

“Trust me, Dad,” Stiles says and downs the rest of his beer. He sits it down and reaches immediately for another one. “I’m no one’s hero.” 

His Dad takes a sip, much smaller than his and just sits. Stiles phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to see a message from Boyd. 

_ You good?  _

Stiles lips curl into a small smile. His dad clears his throat. He looks up. 

“So you and Boyd, huh?”

Stiles feels his face heat and he nods. “Yeah,” He says softly. 

“And you’re sure you both,” He says and makes a gesture towards the door. “ Sure you both are up for this?”

Stiles looks at his dad and shrugs. “I’m not sure of anything. But I do know of everyone in that house, those three are the only ones who could really reel me in if things,” His voice catches and he clears it loudly then take another sip of beer. 

“If things don’t go well, “ He finishes, voice hoarse. 

“You’ll call me if you need backup right?” His dad asks.

“I’ll call you even if I don’t,” Stiles says and offers him a small smile. “Thanks for this, dad.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s my job as a parent to worry about you.” He takes another small sip of his beer and stands again. “Now about this kitchen.” 

Stiles groans and shakes his head. “Just leave it Dad. I’ll clean it up later.”

His dad gives him an unimpressed look. 

“Okay, Boyd will clean it up later with my unwavering moral support.”

“Grab your beer and a broom, son,” his dad says and turns back towards the mess.

Stiles sighs loudly, mostly for show, and then complies.

+

Stiles is sweeping up the last few bits of glass into a dustpan, when he hears the sound of the front door opening. He and his dad, who is tying up one of the other bags they’d filled turn to look as Boyd let’s himself into the apartment. 

He stops, catching the eyes on him, and he throws a confused look towards Stiles then a more neutral one to the sheriff. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were still here Mr. Stilinski. I would have gotten more pizza,” He says and gestures to the box in his hand. 

“Oh no need,” He says. He sighs as he stands. “I think we’re just about done here. I’ll take some of these on my way out. You can manage the rest?”

Stiles nods and dumps the dustpan into the remaining open bag. 

His Dad nods and seems to do a check for his wallet and keys before he sighs and walks over to Stiles. He pulls him into an unsurprisingly tight hug that Stiles never wants to be released from. 

“Call me as soon as you know anything,” He says, voice muffled against Stiles' shoulder. 

“I will,” Stiles says, voice tight with emotion. When his dad pulls back he cups Stiles face in his hands and stares at him for a long time. 

“I love you, Stiles.”

“I love you too, Dad,” Stiles whispers.

He releases Stiles with a tight squeeze to his shoulder and then turns to pick up a bag of trash in one hand and then extends the other hand to Boyd. 

“You be safe too, son,” His dad says.

“Yes sir.” Boyd looks at the remaining bags. “Let me walk you out.” 

He walks over to grab a few bags closer to Stiles and picks them up. When they lock eyes, Stiles sends him a smile that Boyd doesn’t return as he turns to follow Stiles’ dad. 

Stiles bites his lip and wonders if he should follow behind them, but his stomach rumbles loudly as the smell of pizza wafts his way. 

Maybe he’ll have one slice and then go and help. 

One slice turns into two, and by the time Boyd walks back into the apartment, Stiles is eyeing the third he plans to eat.

Boyd stares at him.

“You were gone for like ever!” Stiles cries. 

Boyd just snorts and shakes his head and goes to the sink to wash his hands. After he dries them he reaches up to one of the cabinets and stills. 

“Stiles, where are all the plates?”

“You don’t need a plate,” Stiles says, ignoring his question. 

“Stiles.”

“I’ve broken them,” He says and shrugs when Boyd lifts one brow in question. 

“All of them?”

“I guess so.”

“Stiles,” Boyd sighs and close the cabinet. 

“By all means, you can go retrieve what’s still intact from the dumpster.” 

Boyd doesn’t say anything, he just walks over and turns the pizza box towards him. As he reaches down to take a slice, Stiles peers around the box to watch him. 

“No, not that one,” Stiles says. 

Boyd sighs loudly, clearly exasperated. “Why Stiles?”

“Dibs.”

“You can’t call dibs on something when no one else is in the room.” 

“You are in the room, so dibs stands,” Stiles says stuffing the last piece of his second piece into his mouth. He reaches for the third piece but Boyd pulls the box away from him and holds it out of reach. 

“No,” Boyd says. “No more pizza for you.” 

Stiles squawks, indignant, and steps in closer and reaches for the box. Boyd easily moves further out of his reach. 

“Why are you so tall,” Stiles mumbles as he starts to strain. Boyd laughs and turns as Stiles closes in. 

“It’s not my fault you’re short,” He says moving out of Stiles reach again.

“I’m average, you mammoth bastard.” 

Boyd's bark of laughter startles him for a second before it spreads and he starts laughing too. Then he’s jumping on an ever moving out of reach Boyd and clinging and climbing over him in efforts to reach the box of pizza. 

Boyd eventually has to drop the box of pizza to catch Stiles, as he falls head first towards the floor. Boyd grabs him around the waist, somehow avoiding a kick in the head from one of Stiles flailing feet. 

They both look up as the door opens again. Stiles tries to make a quick mental note of how many people have keys to his home. 

Lydia and Scott walk in together and both stare at them. 

“Dibs dispute,” is all Stiles says.

“Oh okay,” Scott says and walks past them with a couple of duffel bags. 

“What?” Lydia says. “How does that make sense?”

“It doesn’t,” Boyd deadpans. 

“Mes itdus,” Stiles says as he shoves the slice of pizza into his mouth. “Ow!” He says after Boyd drops him. 

+

After another pizza has been ordered, and a few more cases of beer have been purchased from the store on the corner. The four of them sit in mostly content silence around the coffee table in the living room. 

Surprising no one, Lydia addresses the elephant in the room first. She clears her throat after taking a small sip of beer.

“Let’s talk about the scenarios.”

“Let’s not,” Stiles says. 

“Stiles.”

Stiles snaps his head to Boyd, prepared to argue, but stops when he sees the tired look on his face.

“We need to do this,” he says softly and he brings a hand to run through Stiles’ hair. Stiles closes his eyes and shifts closer to him on the couch. Boyd wraps his arms around him and hugs him close for a few seconds. He pulls back far enough to kiss the side of his head. 

“We’re all scared, but we need more of a plan than just show up and see what happens,” Boyd continues softly. 

Stiles nods.”I know.” He opens his eyes and looks back to Lydia. “Sorry, go ahead.”

She smiles sadly and takes a shaky breath in. Scott puts a hand on her knee and squeezes. She sends him a small, grateful smile and then turns back to Stiles.

“I called ahead and got us a hotel near the town he seems to be in. It’s about a 15-minute drive from the farmers market the pictures were taken at,” She says. 

Stiles lets himself sag a little more into Boyd’ side. He nods and she continues. 

“Scott did some research, more research, and there's a farmers market tomorrow from 11 to 4 pm,” She says and looks down at her watch. “If we leave here by 6 tomorrow morning we should be able to get to our hotel for the 12 pm check-in and then to the farmers market.”

“If the farmers market is open until four why do we have to leave so early,” Scott asks. 

“It’s just cushion time,” Lydia says with a shrug, “In case…”

“In case what?” Boyd asks.

“In case it takes me some reminding why we’re there,” Stiles says with a sigh. Lydia shoots him a guilty look and he lets one of the corners of his lips tug into a rueful smile. “Don’t worry. I get it. But also he might not be there. I don’t think I know anyone who just hangs around the farmers market all day.”

“I’ve been looking at the pictures a lot,” Lydia says. She pauses to take another deep breath and gestures a hand towards Scott. “We’ve been looking at the pictures a lot,” She adds. 

“Um, yeah,” Scott says uncertainty. Lydia nods shortly and he continues, “And we think he might be working there.”

“What makes you say that?”

Scott turns away to reach for one of the duffels he’d brought in. He unzips it and takes out a folder. He sits it on the table before flipping it open. Stiles has to look away from the glossy images of maybe-Derek. 

“He seems to be always carrying things that look like equipment, Scott says. He rifles through a few of the photos before he speaks again. “And in this one, he’s actually standing behind one of the vendor tents.”

Boyd unwinds himself from around Stiles to sit up and get a closer look at the photos. He grunts an approval. 

Then there is silence again. 

“So, what if it’s not him,” Boyd says after a long time. 

When Stiles turns his head towards him, his eyes are glued to one of the photos.

“Then someone is clearly making clones in that town,” Scott starts. Lydia sighs. Scott shrugs, “I mean honestly there’s no other way that could not be him.”

“Fine,” Stiles snaps and takes the photo away from Boyd and puts it back on the table. “What if it is him?”

He looks at Scott expectantly. Scott looks back and takes a breath. “Then you’ll go and talk to him. That’s the plan isn’t it.” 

“And when he doesn’t remember me?” Stiles says. 

“Or if he does,” Lydia says. 

“If he does, Lyds this will be a much shorter trip than any of us planned for because that means he’s just decided to stay in this place.”

“Not necessarily, you could spark something in his memory,” Lydia starts.

“You don’t honestly believe that do you,” Stiles asks, disbelief coloring his tone. 

“I don’t know what to believe!” Lydia snaps. “Because believe it or not Stiles this is hard for us. Derek was our friend too.”

“We’re just trying to help,” Scott adds. 

“Well sitting here talking about all the different ways this plan can go wrong is not helping,” Stiles says and stands. “ So I’ll see you all in the morning.  _ Bright and early _ .”

He can’t help but slam the door to the bathroom when he closes it. He’s angry for no reason he can think of, and it’s easier to take it out on the door than on his friends - more than he already has - who he knows are just trying to help. But his head is hurting, and his heart is hurting, and his bones feel like they won’t support him for much longer.

He closes his eyes tight as tears start to well up and he takes a shaky breath in. When he opens them again, he feels the same, but he’s starting to think he’ll never shake this feeling of dread. 

He walks over to the shower and turns it on. Once inside he lets the hot water wash over him. He wonders if he looks at the shower head long enough if he’d drown.

Stiles stands there for a long time. So long that when Boyd startles him, stepping in behind him, the water has turned cool.

Stiles lets him wash his hair, then his body, and then lets him maneuver him out of the way so he can do the same to himself. 

The water is icy when Boyd bends down to turn off the taps. 

They are silent, still, as Boyd wraps a towel around him and then around himself, and they are silent as Boyd leads him into the room, where he finds two bags packed neatly by the bed.

Boyd sits on the bed and pulls Stiles down to sit next to him. Together they lay down and stare at each other, letting the silence wash over them.

Stiles leans in close, aching to touch Boyd, and he sighs as Boyd immediately wraps his arms around him. Boyd kisses him. First on the lips, slowly and intentional. As he turns Stiles onto his back his lips trail down to Stiles’ neck. He trails back up to his lips to capture Stiles gasp as Boyd's hands stretch the water slick skin at his entrance, and a few minutes later when he slides into Stiles, neither of them are silent. 

+

The next morning is tense. 

No one will quite look at anyone directly in the eye and Stiles can’t tell if it's because of the thing they are about to do or if it’s the admittedly ill-placed hickey on his neck. 

_ Whatever _ he thinks as he pulls his hood over his head. He’s content on letting them think whatever the fuck they want to, he’ll just worry about sulking in the Jeep and glaring at the storefront of the coffee shop. 

They’d attempted to make a quick breakfast at the apartment but soon realized there wasn’t much to work with after Stiles’ “cleaning” fit yesterday. 

So now he’s sitting sulking - mainly because they had all ganged up against him when he tried to drive - while the three of them are buying breakfast, and coffee, and snacks for the just over 6-hour car ride.

They exit, all holding large paper bags. Once inside, Stiles accepts a cup of coffee from Boyd and shakes his head at the offered bagel. His stomach twinges painfully at the thought of eating.

“Oh Stiles, “Scott starts around a mouthful of his own bagel, “I called the admin office and got us both a substitute for the rest of the week. They were pretty chill about it since we only have a few days left before winter break anyway.”

Stiles stiffens and nods, He actually managed to forget about his responsibilities to his job, his students, and his face flushes a little bit as he takes a sip of coffee.

“Oh, um, thanks,” He says eventually. 

As Boyd finishes fixing up his cup of coffee he sits the bag with the offered bagel at Stiles’ feet. He puts one hand on Stiles’ knee and squeezes it tightly before he moves it to turn the key. 

“Let’s do this then,” Boyd says softly, then he puts the car in reverse. 

As they turn onto the road, silence washes over them again.

+

Despite having some of the coffee, Stiles falls asleep quickly. When he wakes up the early morning dawn has been replaced with intense sunlight breaking through a cracks in the heavily wooded treeline. 

He squints and turns to look around to the back seat and finds Lydia with her head resting in a sleeping Scott's lap. He yawns and turns back to the road. 

“Looks like we all left you to it,” Stiles says and reaches for his coffee. He glances at the clock.

“I don’t really mind,” Boyd says. “I like the quiet.”

“And somehow you managed to end up with me,” Stiles says and looks just in time to catch a small smile on Boyd’s face.

“Well I’m really good at ignoring you,” he says, then smirks, “And shutting you up.”

Stiles laughs and just looks out the windows to watch the passing scenery. 

“Where are we?” 

“Not sure of the town, but we’re just under 4 hours in,” Boyd says.

“Jesus, really?” He turns to look back at Scott and Lydia. “How long have they been asleep.”

“Scott fell asleep pretty much right after you did. Lydia… about half an hour ago.”

Stiles smirks. “And what did you two talk about?”

“You,” Boyd answers honestly. He shoots Stiles a quick glance before he looks back to the road. “And about what’s going to happen when we get there.”

Stiles says nothing. He looks back to the road and takes another sip of his now cold coffee. Stiles can sense that this is an opening, an opportunity that Boyd is giving him to talk to him, to share with him without the others.

Stiles looks at Boyd. His fingers start to tap rapidly on the lid of the paper cup and he quickly looks away.

“We’ll need to get gas soon,” He says.

Boyd just sighs. 

“Yeah.”

+

The gas stop is uneventful, they refuel the car and each of them takes bathroom breaks. Scott offers to drive the rest of the way and Boyd obliges easily and takes his seat in the back next to Lydia. 

As Scott pulls out of the gas station, he reaches behind him to the backseat where is backpack is. 

“Do you want me to help you with that?”Boyd asks. 

“Nope, I got it,” Scott says as he accidentally sways the car with his efforts. 

“Sorry, sorry!” He says as Lydia smacks his hand away from the bag. 

“Pay attention to the road,” she chides.

“Yes,” Stiles says, patting his leg where coffee, hot and fresh from the gas stop, has spilled on his pants. “Let’s try not to die on the way to find our dead friend.”

“Ha, ha,” Scott deadpans and reaches back into the bag.

“Scott!” Lydia yells. 

“Ok, ok, I’ve got it,” He says and pulls his hand away revealing a black, bulky rectangular CD case. He pulls it to the front and then tosses it to Stiles. 

Stiles squints down at the faded writing on the case and a slow grin starts to form, as he looks over to his best friend. “You did not.”

“You bet the fuck I did,” Scott says and then whoops loudly.

“Jesus, Scott,” Lydia says, and Stiles turns to find her rubbing her temple and laying her head down on Boyd's lap. 

“Can’t have a road trip without our tunes, man,” Scott says excitedly. “Pop one in.”

Stiles laughs, letting Scott’s excitement catch. He opens the case, his smile growing as he looks at the sleeves filled with burned CDs. He flips a few sleeves, snorting at the nonsensical titles written on the silvery tops. He finds one labeled ‘ _ songs I wanna bone’ _ and laughs so hard he almost chokes. 

“Which one?” Scott asks and glances over as Stiles points to it. “I mean some songs you just wanna bone. I don’t know what else to say. And I can hear you rolling your eyes Lyds.”

“Shocker,” Lydia says. 

Stiles turns the page and wipes a stray tear of joy before he finds it. 

“Yes!” He says and pulls it out from the sleeve. He puts into the player, anticipation buzzing through him.

It only takes a few beats for Scott to yell. “OH SHIT!” Just in time to start drumming on the steering wheel as Stiles mock strumming. They start singing, more like screaming, in unison as the lyrics start and before he knows it he’s ditched his air guitar for some dancing, or arm-flailing depending on who’s asked. They maintain this energy throughout the whole song, and as it ends they laugh, breathless and free. 

As the guitar riff starts off the next song, Scott excitedly starts to headbang and Stiles turns around to Lydia. 

“Lyds, it’s your favorite,” Stiles says, a grin spreading wildly, enjoying the roll of her eyes as she trains her gaze back to her phone. Stiles’ heart tugs happily at the smile she tries to hide behind it.

“No wonder we weren’t friends with you guys in school,” Boyd says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. Stiles snaps his head to him, expecting to defend his and Scott’s past sleves, but finds Boyd smiling, and from the looks of it suppressing a laugh. Stiles laughs shortly.

“I mean it’s your loss really,” Stiles says.

“Damn right,” Scott shouts raucously. Boyd shrugs and glances out the window away from him, trying, and failing, to hide his smile. Lifted, Stiles turns back to Scott, whose eyes are trained in the rearview mirror on Lydia. 

“Lyds, ready for the drop? Remember the dance move?”

Stiles laughs and Lydia scoffs. 

“Oh please, I never partook in such craziness and you know it.”

“Did you just - did she just call us  _ crazy _ ,” Scott asks, mock affronted. Stiles nods, adapting a similar wounded look. 

“The president of the therapy would be so disappointed, Lydia.”

“There is no president of thera-” Lydia starts, sitting up from her spot, “Regardless, I am not a therapist, I’m a psychiatrist.” 

“Tomato, potato,” Scott says then yells. “LET THE MOTHER FUCKING BEAT DROP.”

Stiles, swept up in this joy, this sheer madness of the moment, plays his role and starts aggressively hitting his hands on the center console looking at Lydia expectantly. He only beats harder as she glares and crosses her arms. Then to his delight, she rolls her eyes and reaches up to pull the ponytail holder from her hair and neatly slips it on to her wrist. Just in time, she leans her head back and in time with another round of dramatic and frantic beats from the song, she thrashes her hair from side to side with the music. 

Scott whoops again and Stiles turns to see him matching her movements. Stiles joins them in a similar fashion, head-banging viciously in no set direction only stopping to laugh breathlessly at the look of bewilderment on Boyd’s normally stoic face. 

They join him in laughter as the song ends. For a brief moment, as Lydia swipes the hair back from her face, her eyes linger, serenely at something but as Stiles turns to follow her gaze her eyes widen and shock and she yells. “SCOTT!” Just as a truck horn blares. He’s suddenly thrown against the side of his car door as Scott jolts the car off the lane of oncoming traffic that he’d drifted into. Overshooting his correctness, the car spins a bit out of control. 

Ten seconds of dizzying chaos later, the car slams to a stop and another car horn blares as it passes by them, now on the side of the road.

Stiles can’t feel his body. He looks down noting no obvious damage, but he can’t feel anything. Panic starts to race through him and his hands start to shake. 

“Shit, fuck,” Scott says, throwing almost his whole body to the backseat to check on them. “Fuck Lydia are you okay.”

Panic peaking Stiles follows his suit to see Boyd helping Lydia from the floor and back into her seat. His heart stops as she winces and pulls the curtain of hair that fell into her face and revealing an angry patch of red skin on her cheek and a steady flow of blood falling from her nose. 

“I’m fine,” She says putting her hand to her face she looks up at Scott. “It’s fine.”

“You’re  _ bleeding _ , Lydia!” Scott says. He opens the car door and jumps out. Stiles watches him run around the front of the car and his eyes halt on a disruption in the pattern of the tree line. Vaguely, Stiles hears Scott opens the door and begin to fuss over Lydia. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Let me look at it. Lydia, stop it, let me look.”

But Stiles doesn’t hear her reply because he starts to laugh, eyes trained on the expanse of broken trees that lead to a steep drop. He laughs until he’s gasping, struggling for breath, and eyes watering, he laughs until his stomach aches and he can taste salt in the corner of his mouth.

“Stiles!” Boyd says, shaking him roughly from the driver's seat, and when did that happen, and Stiles swallows taking a gasping breath before he laughs again.

“What?” he forces out. Boyd looks at him, his face expressing no emotion but his eyes full of concern stare deeply into Stiles’. Stiles quiets a little. He asks again and then points to the break in the tree-line. “What? Haven’t you seen?”

Boyd turns his gaze and his expression hardens. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, fighting to stifle another manic laugh. “Yes! It appears that Scott, almost killed us in the exact same spot-” Stiles starts and then rips off his seatbelt and punches his door open. He gestures grandly to the expanse of ruined trees. 

“In the exact. Same. Spot,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. “where two years ago Derek’s body was flung from his car.” 

Stiles flails his arm dramatically presenting the damaged area. “The car that did all this devastation.”

“Stiles, I’m sor-”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Stiles says, and he can hear the slight trace of hysteria in his voice. “Lydia is fine. She wasn’t thrown from the car and presumably killed. So what's there to be sorry about. We’re fine. We’re all fine.”

Stiles is breathing hard, his gaze locked on Scott’s miserable expression. The uncomfortable stare down comes to an end when Scott looks away and wipes at a tear falling from his face.

Stiles turns around and walks closer towards the wrecked bunch of trees. He looks around taking it in. An uncomfortable emotion rises in his thoughts as he lowers to the ground. He’s never been here, but clearly, someone had. There’s a small cross at the base of one of the ruined trees, with “HALE” embossed in the center of it. But even before seeing that, he’d know. He could feel it.

He feels the warmth of Boyd brush against him as he sits down next to him. Boyd mimics his posture, knees against his chest, arms resting on top and gazes out at the trees. They are silent.

“I wonder how far he fell?” Stiles says, chest thudding painfully as he does. 

Boyd just exhales shakily and rest his head on his arms. Stiles looks at him then back to the trees and falls back into silence once more. 

+

Stiles lets his thumbs hit anxiously against the wheel. There had been no protest this time when he got behind the wheel and the sporadic rhythm of his anxiety was the only sound that filled the cabin. The CD player had been silenced the second he started the car. 

Boyd reaches and puts a hand on Stiles’ thigh and he stops his tapping.

And then it was silent.

+

“We should be approaching the exit,” Boyd says a few hours later. “Next one on the right.”

Stiles nods and turns on his signal as he looks over his shoulder to change lanes. His knuckles whiten as his grip on the steering wheel tightens when his eyes find the sign for the exit. 

_ Here we go  _ he thinks and exits the highway.

Boyd navigates him down a long stretch of heavily a wooded road. The tree line reaches so high that Stiles has to crane his neck to see the top of them. It’s almost dizzying. There’s an eerie sort of stillness in the trees, a quietness that seeps into the already silent car, the Jeep’s rumbling engine the only thing heard over the sound of Stiles heart beating in his ears. 

Hesitation weighs on him the further they drive down what seems like an endless road. Stiles hands start to feel numb as they tighten even more around the steering wheel. 

“Where the hell are we?” Scott says finally, disrupting the tense silence, “We haven’t seen a house or anything for like ever.”

“Does this seem right?” Lydia asks no one in particular, but apparently sharing Scott’s hesitation. 

“It’s what the directions say,” Boyd says, his gaze trained on the huge expanse of trees. 

Stiles looks at him briefly and wonders if Derek stumbled his way from his crash landing and found help in these woods. Or if he’s still there; bones and decay. 

Boyd turns and meets his eyes. Stiles turns back to the road. 

“How much further?” Stiles asks, his voice flat. 

“We should be coming upon it soon,” Boyd says, looking down at his phone. 

“Can you refresh it? maybe it’s stuck,” Lydia suggests. 

“No, there is no signal out here,” Boyd says. “If I refresh it I might lose the map completely.”

“Well, this isn’t it. Clearly, I mean look around there’s no way there’s anything out here for miles.”

“We don’t know that, Scott.”

“Lyds, look around do you see anything other than trees?”

“Look, this is where that map is taking us.”

“Well maybe the fucking map is wrong, Boyd.”

“You look it up then,” Boyd snaps.

Everyone is silent after that. It’s so unlike Boyd to anger that it takes them all by surprise. Stiles doesn’t even think before he reaches over and places a hand over Boyds hand clutching his phone. Boyd loosens his grip and then drops his phone to replace it with Stiles hands. They look at each other, unspoken comfort in their gaze. Boyd squeezes Stiles hands and lets out a sigh. Stiles nods and turns back to the road. 

There’s a man standing in the middle of the road.

“FUCK!” Stiles yells and smashes on the brakes. The Jeep skids for the second time and spins. This an unsettling thud against the car as it slams to a halt. 

“Stiles,” Boyd breathes out.

“Shut up,” Stiles spits out. 

“Stiles, was that--”

“Shut up!” Stiles says again. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.”

Boyd does but he also unbuckles his seat belt and tears out of the car. 

Scott follows behind him.

“Stiles.” Lydia says, grabbing his shoulder from the back seat. “That looked like--”

“Shut up, s _hut up,_ _shut up._ ”

“Holy shit,” He hears Scott say. 

“Help me get him up,” Boyd says and seconds later they carry an unconscious man into the back seat of the car.

It’s then he’s faced with the reality that he’s just hit the man they’ve come to look for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH! 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think! I think we'll give Stiles a break in the next chapter.... ;)


	5. Present Day - Miguel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎶you're probably gonna hate this chapter, but please read it anywayyyyy🎶

He wakes when the dog paws at his face. He grunts his acknowledgment, the dog grunts back in frustration. He sighs and sits up, takes a second to scratch his beard, then his crotch, and then the dog behind the ears when it whines at him pitifully. 

His bones groan louder than he does when he stands from the bed and takes a second to stretch, much to the displeasure of the German Shepherd hobbling around his feet. 

“Okay, okay,” He says and pushes aside the thin hanging piece of fabric that separates the bedroom from the kitchen. 

He finds her there in nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of thick wool socks that stretch just above her calves. She’s perched on top of the counter with a cup of something steaming in one hand and a long list in the other hand. Her dark skin contrasts beautifully against the white and pale yellow counters and cabinets behind her. 

She looks up at the sound of his feet shuffling against the floor and smiles. Well it’s more of a smirk, but his heart stutters just the same anyway. 

“Morning,” She says. He grunts in reply, never a morning person like her, and she laughs softly.

“Someone is grumpy this morning,” She says before smiling into her mug.

“Well someone,” he starts and walks over to the cabinet behind her. She ducks when he opens it and he takes the opportunity to kiss the side of her face, right over the scar that spreads across her cheek and down her neck. She smiles again. He tries not to. 

“Someone,” He starts again. “Decided I needed to wake up and feed him.”

He stares down at the dog hopping up and down excitedly now that he’s seen the bag of food in his hand. “Even though Braeden is already awake and could have fed you ages ago.” He says to the dog. 

He walks over to the dog’s bowl and fills it. When he walks away the dog does not follow, finally content with his demands. 

“You’re also quite chatty this morning,” She says. He scowls. She huffs out a laugh and takes the bag from him replacing it with her steaming mug.

“What can I say,” Braedan says. He sniffs the mug as she twists to put the bag in the cabinet and close it. “He knows you do it so much better... and faster. Plus, might I add, I told you that the dog couldn’t stay because it would be too much work, and too big in the trailer and --”

“And yet, almost a year later, he’s still here,” He interupts with a triumphant smile. 

“Still here, and still your problem,” She says, but smiles down at the dog. “He is cute though, even when he’s grumpy and needy and farts too much. Just like his owner.”

He rolls his eyes and takes another sniff of the hot brown water. One of her strange teas he concludes and hands it back to her without a sip. She smirks, probably already knowing he wouldn’t drink it, and then reaches over and presses a button to start the already prepped pot of coffee. 

Grateful, he leans in against her, his hands snake around her back, he leans his head on her shoulder and they stay like that. He enjoys the steady, slow beat of her heart and the easy swell and fall of her chest as she breathes. He’s content as the smell of coffee permeates around the airstream. 

“Migs,” She says after a few minutes. He doesn’t respond. By now he knows she means him, but he’s never liked when she calls him that. He feels her shift under his weight and hears the sound of the ceramic mug gently hitting the counter behind her. Seconds later, a warm hand trails slowly up his bare back. He exhales and leans into the touch, body arching against her palm. When she slides it into his hair and tightens her fist around the hair near the nape of his neck, he groans anticipating the pull. When she does it he grins, teeth bared, smile wild and feral. 

“Miguel,” she says slowly, punctuating the syllables. 

“Braeden,” He snaps, but there’s no malice, and she knows, he’s sure by the signature, subtle smirk that plays on her lips. He strains forward a little, leaning in to kiss the smirk away.

“We don’t have time for that,” Braeden says and turns her face away from him. “The market.”

“Will be there when we’re done.” He says, his voice a low growl. He kisses what’s available to him, the scar at the base of her neck and then lets his tongue trail up towards her earlobe. She doesn’t say anything, but he can tell he’s winning at the way her grip tightens in his hair and the way her legs spread just a little wider to accommodate him. 

“You’re the worst,” She whispers, as she releases him. He grins and watches as she leans back and pulls the shirt over her head, revealing her naked body. “But I love you anyway.” She finishes and moans loudly as he leans in to nip at one of her breasts. 

“Migu-” 

He cuts her off with a rough kiss. He doesn’t need her to say his name, the breathiness of her moan says more than enough for him. She doesn’t need to speak at all. He hears her ask for more in the way she scrapes her blunt nails down his back when he slows down. He sees how she aches for him as she bites his lip, and he hears her love for him in the laughing hitch of her breath when he reciprocates by sliding his hand from her hips to her cunt. 

“Mine,” He says as he slides two fingers into her. He accents his point with a messy lick from her clavicle to the base of her neck. She shivers.

“Not yours,” She says and pushes him back just enough to slide her hand down his torso and into his boxers. She wraps a hand around him and strokes him in time with his pulsing fingers inside of her. He nips at her jawline, only pausing to run his tongue against her pulse. He removes his fingers and pulls her away from the counter a little bit. She grins and guides him inside, and as her warmth draws him in, he realizes his mistake. 

“Yours,” He moans into her skin, voice already rough and ragged.

As she wraps her arms and her legs around him and settles onto him, he couldn’t possibly imagine loving anything more than her. 

+

Deaton walked in on them. 

Deaton had a habit of finding him in unfortunate situations. It was Deaton, after all, who found him near death in the mountains and nursed him back to health. This time he was not so appreciative. Deaton though, ever the gentlemen, had the good grace to leave and give them enough time to finish and shower up. 

Okay, Braden  _ may _ have thrown a mug at him first, but he probably would have done it anyway.

“We’re going to be late for the market,” Deaton says, in lieu of a more welcoming greeting, when they walked out of the trailer. He drops a heavy box of goods into the flatbed of Braeden’s truck with a loud creak. He goes to pick up another box without looking their way. 

“Good morning to you too, D,” Braeden says, her voice aching with sarcasm. 

Deaton pauses and walks over to him. “Miguel, run the boxes over to the market, please. I need to have a chat with Braeden.”

He takes the proffered box and glances between them for a split second before looking over his shoulder to the truck with the other boxes. 

“Uh,” he starts, but Braeden cuts in.

“Deaton, we can do this later,” She says and walks over to take the box from him. “Plus, Miguel is not good at the market by himself. Remember last time?”

“That was not my fault,” He says, recalling the last time he had to run their tent by himself while Deaton was at the clinic and Braden had run back to the airstream to get more stock of the wellness teas. 

“That guy was asking me all these stupid questions,” He says, scowling. “And I’m pretty sure he took my picture.”

“Even more reason for us to have the conversation now, and quickly,” Deaton says, giving Braeden a pointed look. She rolls her eyes and puts the box into the back of the truck with the rest and then turns and fishes out the keys from her jacket. She tosses them to him. 

“Go ahead and get the truck warmed up, Miguel, This shouldn’t take long.”

Braeden puts her hands in her pockets and walks back towards the airstream. Deaton follows behind her leaving him alone in the cold. He looks towards the truck then back to where Deaton has just closed the door. He sighs and is about to turn to go and start the truck when the door opens again. He’s confused for a brief moment when Deaton nor Braeden come out of the trailer, but he huffs out a breathy laugh as the dog waddles down the small set of metal stairs and over to him. 

“Well we couldn’t leave you behind could we?” He says and opens the truck door. “Up, up!” He says and lets the dog leap onto the seat before he slides in behind it.

Once inside, he puts the keys in the ignition and turns the key. Nothing. He sighs, and looks at the dog who looks back at him with a confused head tilt. 

“Don’t judge me,” He mutters and tries to start the car again. He closes his eyes trying to remember the sequence of things he needs to do. 

“Brake,” he mutters softly as he steps down on the brake pedal, he continues as he turns the key again. “Turn, release,” he says as he takes his foot off the pedal and nothing happens still. “Right?” He asks, looking down at the dog who just scoots closer to him to put his paw on his lap. He huffs out a laugh and pauses to rub the dog's head. 

“Thanks for the support,” he says before he turns back to the task at hand. He frowns, he’s been meaning to ask Braeden to look at the car, hoping she would consider fixing it. But she also doesn’t seem to have a hard time starting it, plus he rarely drives the car anyway. It was only a few months ago that Braeden had started letting him drive, quickly realizing that 1) he didn’t really know what he was doing and 2) he could only drive short distances without his head hurting like crazy. 

He’s got a dull headache forming in his temple now as he tries and fails to start the car over and over. 

He’s about to give up and just huddle up with the dog for warmth until Braeden comes when, in frustration, he turns the key hard and steps repeatedly on the brake pedal until the truck roars to life. 

“Aha!” He yells excitedly. The dog sits up and barks in celebration as well.

The truck takes ages to warm up on the inside but it has hardly started to take the edge off when the passenger side door creaks open, making him and the dog jump a little. 

“That was fast,” He says as Braeden slides inside the cabin. She closes the door behind her and he looks back towards the airstream. 

“Don’t you want to drive?” He asks.

She smiles softly, and a little distracted, before she shakes her head. “No, you can do it. You did really well last time.”

He hesitates, thinking about the route to get to the farmers market. It’s not a far drive, and it’s one he’s made before. He thinks it should be okay, but something doesn’t feel right. He turns to pull on his seat belt, glancing back at the airstream again as he does. “What about Deaton--”

“He’ll meet us there in his car,” She says and puts on her own seat belt. “He has to run to the clinic and get some new kind of salve he’s been wanting to sell.”

He nods again and puts the truck in reverse. He glances at her before he turns to make sure he’s not going to run over anything, but she’s staring pointedly out of the window. 

He wants to ask, he wants to know what was so urgent, so important that he couldn't be a part of. It’s not like he would tell anyone. She and Deaton, and maybe three others, are the only people in town he really talks to. But he doesn’t want to press, she’d let him know if he had something to worry about. She always had his back. 

As he pulls onto the road that will lead them to the market he fusses with the radio. It hasn’t really ever worked that well, but every once in a while a grainy bit of music or talk radio will help fill the silence. They’re in luck today because he’s quickly able to get the station settled enough to hear choppy bits of a song spreading some notion of holiday cheer. 

He looks over, expectant, because Braeden normally hates when he puts on Christmas music, but she’s still looking away from him out the window.

He sits back in his seat, content with the silence and the staticky warbles about a white Christmas. 

They’re about half-way there when Braeden speaks up. 

“Do you ever think about where you came from?”

He frowns and glances her way. She’s staring at him, expression blank. 

He shakes his head and looks back to the road. “I can’t really remember.”

“Nothing?” She asks. “Still?”

His frown deepens and he shoots her another look, this time not answering her before he looks back to the road. He grips the wheel tight. 

“I know,” She says with a sigh, “I know you don’t, I just had to ask.”

“Why?” He snaps. 

“Do you like it here,” She asks, and he has to look again because the tone of her voice has gone soft. More gentle than he’s used to hearing from her. “In this town, with me and Deaton.”

“Yeah,” he says and then pauses, “I mean it’s all I know.”

He shrugs. And she sighs and looks away before she softly says, “I hope that’s enough.”

He’s about to ask more, because he wants her to know that he’s not unhappy here, that he knows for certain he’d be dead if it hadn’t been for her and Deaton. But she cuts him off before he can start and says. “Watch out for that.”

He turns his attention back to the road and slows to a stop as they come closer to some debris in the road. He sighs and puts the car in park. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m moving it,” He says and opens his door. “Someones going to mess up their car trying to run it over or drive around it. “

He waits for a moment to see if there are any more questions or complaints from Braeden, but she’s since diverted her attention to her phone and is frowning down at what seems to be a news article, he frowns and closes the door. 

His mind bristles as he jogs the small distance from the car to what seems to be a collection of trash on the road. He thinks back to the conversation in the car. Doubt starts to creep in his mind. He’d thought that he and Braeden were on to a good thing. He knew he loved her, she'd taken care of him for the last couple of years, seemingly without complaint, and has been more than that for roughly the last few months, but maybe he was wrong and he had overstayed his welcome. The thought of them kicking him out made his head hurt and he grunts a little louder than probably necessary when he heaves the debris from the road. 

As he’s finishing up he goes back to grab all the smaller pieces from the road and tosses them off to the side. 

He looks up when he hears the low rumble of an oncoming car coming down the road. He quickly looks down to make sure he’s gotten everything from the ground and then back up to gage the distance of the car. It’s speeding a lot faster than he’d thought originally, but he still has time to move except…

That car. 

He’s sure he’s not seen it around town, but it also seems familiar. He can’t place it. He’s a little dazed from his rapidly growing headache and a sudden, intense wave confusion that he hasn’t felt in almost a year, as he stumbles farther down the road, towards the car.

“Braeden I think I,” he slurs out before the car swerves as it skids to a halt and his world fades to black. 

+

  
  


He doesn’t think about it often, but he remembers waking up. Everything was hazy and painful. He was both physically and mentally restricted, not capable of thinking too much about anything. He remembers the pain mostly, a deep ache in his head that throbbed, even through the pain medicine, almost anytime he tried to speak. 

So he didn’t. 

He didn’t speak for weeks, probably months. He didn’t speak when the cops came and tried to question him. He didn’t speak when the nurses asked him if he was in any pain.

He didn’t speak when his doctor ran test after test and tried to figure out who he was.

When Braden asked, after he was well enough to leave the hospital, if he wanted to come home with her and, by proxy, Deaton. To that, he made an effort. Words formed in his mind but got caught on the way down to his mouth. He remembers closing his eyes on the tears that sprung to his eyes due to pain and frustration, and he settled on a nod that also turned out to be very painful. 

The doctor had warned them about his scars. The red and angry gashes across his forehead and down the left side of his eye and cheek.

“If it gets infected he could lose sight in that eye,” she’d said. 

But Braeden was familiar with treating scars. She has one herself that runs down her neck. She’d told him about it, how she too almost died almost two decades prior. It was a nice distraction as she dabbed medicine and other odd smelling ointments on his wounds.

One of the first times she’d removed some of the bandages on his face to redress it, he could feel her hand trace just along where he felt the throbbing pain. 

“I bet you were beautiful,” She said, voice quiet, but not pitying like so many of the nurses and doctors at the hospital had been.

He wanted to say he didn’t remember. He didn’t even know what he looked like now. He’d strained to say the write words, but his fucking brain would not connect to his mouth to save his life.

When all other words failed him, he simply grunted out an,“Ugh.”

  
  


Braeden had just smiled and shrugged before dabbing an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball on his wounds. “Then let’s pretend this is an improvement. Also, we’re definitely going to tell everyone that your first words were ‘Ugh’.”

He smiled. It hurt like a bitch, but it was worth it. 

Once he was better, after months and months of mobility and speech training with Braeden and Deaton, he would sometimes stare in the mirror and try to imagine what his face would look like without the scars. 

They weren’t so noticeable when he had his beard, but one time he’d shaven and had almost forgotten what he looked like. He didn’t stare in the mirror too long when he did that, anything to avoid the ache along his scar. 

“Maybe you should lean into that sensation, maybe you’ll discover something new about yourself,” Deaton said one night when he confided it to him. 

He tried, at first, to chase any sort of sensation or emotion that would come forth when he looked in the mirror. Time after time, he would stare and strain for his mind to take him somewhere, and time after time, he would get nowhere and would have nothing to show for his efforts other than dizzying, confusing thoughts and a skull-splitting migraine. 

He’s never really felt close to remembering anything from before he woke up. 

And then he saw the blue car.

+

This time when he wakes. His pain is clear and sharp. And he’s only confused for a second because people are shouting. Then he hears the gun go off and glass shatter around him.

He sits up fast, but his body sways violently as the car swerves. 

The shouting people are now screaming and he looks frantically for her.

“Braeden!” he shouts as he sits upright. 

He’s met instead with a startled looking man with wavy brown hair. He tries to push away from him but not before the other guy screams and punches him in the head. 

_ This shit is getting old _ , is all he can think about as his vision fades again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! I'm so sorry. I honestly can't event tell you what I've been doing for the last 7 months, but these two chapters were HARD to write and I struggled over this one specifically. I even almost took it out. BUT HERE IT IS. Idk I have a plan... trust me?


	6. Present Day - Stiles

Stiles is not panicking. 

He is in no way calm, but he is definitely not panicking. 

Panicking, as it turns out, would be a fucking upgrade to what he is currently doing, which is nothing. 

He stares straight ahead, grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Turns out when Stiles is faced with the sudden realization that he may have just killed the fiancé that he thought died two years earlier, his brain sort of just melts. 

Plus, everyone is shouting at him. 

It’s Boyd, always Boyd these days, who breaks him out of his trance, because Boyd  _ is _ panicking. 

He can hear it in the sound of his voice as he shouts. “Stiles! Drive!”

And Stiles does, because Boyd never panics, and Stiles has to do something. So he jerks the wheel to the left so they can complete the near-180 degree turn he’d made when he’d skid to a halt and speeds off, back towards the way they’d come.

Everyone is still shouting, but Stiles isn’t really listening. He’s driving. That’s his only goal for the moment. 

He’s so focused on the road that he hardly notices when the back window shatters and everyone starts screaming.

“Braeden!” He hears over the cacophony of panicked yells and his head snaps backward, the car swaying forcefully with the movement, but he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t heard that voice in two years. 

There’s a split-second moment of silence where he and Scott look at each other before they both start screaming. Derek, because it’s definitely fucking Derek, moves suddenly and Scott screams impossibly louder and punches him. 

Derek slumps against the seat and partially onto Boyd. 

“Scott!” Stiles shouts. 

“I’m sorry! I panicked! It looked like he was going to attack me or something!”

“Stiles!” Boyd yells again, and Stiles rights the car and he speeds away down the road again. 

“I’m calling 911,” Lydia says and she crawls quickly from the back seat to the front passenger seat. 

“Why?” Scott says.

“Because someone is shooting at us, Scott!”

“We technically just kidnapped someone,” Scott points out. “Well, I guess technically we didn’t kidnap him, he’s ours?”

“We do not know that this man is Derek,” Lydia says and turns back to the phone shaking in her hand. 

“It’s him,” Stiles says at the same time that Boyd says. “It is.” 

“Whatever!” Lydia snaps, raising the phone to her ear. “I’m still calling because -- Stiles watch out!” She yells.

Stiles does not watch out, he watches the road, and that is the only reason why he narrowly misses being sideswiped by a rusty colored red pick up truck. 

When it misses him it speeds, impossibly fast, further down the road past them and stops, swerving to a halt in front of them. 

Stiles watches a figure get out of the car and walk,  _ walk,  _ around to the passenger side of the car to train what looks like a shotgun in their direction. 

“Stiles,” Lydia starts. “Gun.”

“I see it.”

“Stiles, I said they’ve got a gun,” Lydia shouts. 

“I said I see it,” Stiles says as he puts more pressure on the gas pedal, making them accelerate. 

“Stiles-” Boyd starts.

“I’ve got it, get down,” he says. 

“Stiles this isn’t one of those stupid action movies that you and Scott make me watch,” Lydia says, practically shrieking. “We’re going to die if you don’t --”

“I said I’ve got it,” Stiles yells back and reaches over and yanks any part of her that he can grab and pulls her down below the dashboard just as he sees the unmistakable motion of the person in front of them cocking the gun. “EVERYONE DOWN,”

Stiles barely has time to duck out of view before the front window shatters. It’s honestly a miracle he’s able to steer straight even as he quickly pops his head back up to see the figure walking calmly towards the car as they reload the gun. Stiles realizes now he's engaged himself in the most dangerous game of chicken ever.

He can hear them shouting. His friends. He can hear their panicked screams, but he can’t bring himself to stop the car. He’s not sure what stopping would even do. He doubts they’d have time to turn around. The person shooting at them would just follow them. Then what?

As he gets closer he sees the figure has reloaded the gun and has stopped walking. Just waiting, it seems, for them to get closer.

“Okay, then,” Stiles says and punches down on the gas once more. One of them grips at his shoulder to make him stop, but he can’t hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. 

He’s less than 50 ft away from the person, when they raise their gun again. 

And in a move that has to be a gift from the fast and furious gods themselves, Stiles slams the car to a stop as he jerks the steering wheel, making the car spin out and around the truck in the middle of the road. He then punches the gas yet again and speeds back onto the road.

“Is everyone okay?” Stiles asks, breaking the stunned silence after a few moments.

“Stiles.” 

His head whips over to Lydia who is trying to pull herself from the floor, she blows out a curtain of hair to reveal another bloody nose.

“If we manage to make it back to Beacon Hills,” She says, grimacing as she sits in her seat. “I’m going to murder you.”

“Well, put your seat belt on then,” Stiles says, too numb to really process what is probably a very real threat from her. “What about you two?” 

He pauses and then adds “three.”

“The truck hasn’t moved yet,” Scott says, and Stiles looks in the rearview mirror to see the back of his head trained on the car still in the middle of the road. 

“Great, you put on your seatbelt too.”

“Stiles,” Boyd says, but Stiles cuts him off. 

“Is your seatbelt on?”

“ _ Stiles _ .”

“It’s a reasonable question, given the day we’ve had, Boyd. Seatbelt. On.”

“Stiles where are you going?”

“Vernon Ulysses Boyd III, I will turn this car around if you don’t put your seatbelt on.”

“Ulysses,” Scott echos, “What kind of-”

“ _ Scott, _ ” Lydia snaps from the passenger seat, he can feel her eyes on him. “Not now.”

Then stiles can hear some shifting around in the back seat before Scott’s panicked cry of “Wait, no, I don’t want him on me.”

Seconds later Boyd is leaning onto the center console placing a hand over Stiles’ chest, over his racing heart. 

“Stiles, we need to call the police,” Boyd says, voice calm now. 

Stiles shakes his head. 

“Okay,” Boyd says. 

“It is not okay.” Lydia starts, but Boyd speaks over her.

“What’s your plan then, Stiles?”

Plan. Right. What had been the plan again?

“Home.” He spits out, his chest rising rapidly under Boyd’s hand now. 

“So you’re going to drive six-plus hours in the freezing cold, with no windshield?” Boyd asks calmly. 

“Not to mention, we have at least three people in this car who need medical attention.”

Stiles whips his head around, and the car sways slightly. 

“You’re hurt? Scotty?”

“Stiles, you’re in shock,” Boyd says, leaning further into his space to correct his steering.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, turning his head back towards the road. “Get back in your seat and put your sea-”

“Stiles, “ Boyd says, his voice soft but urgent near his cheek. “We need to get him and Lydia to a hospital.”

“It’s only a few hours,” Stiles rasps, he can’t feel his hands. “ We have to keep going. They’ll come for us. They’ll keep -”

“Stiles, “ Boyd says, near his ear now. “Stiles, breathe.”

“You breathe,” he tries to snap back, but it comes out more of a gasp, his vision swimming behind tears pooling in his eyes. In the silence that follows, as his body shakes from anxiety, or cold, or from some unknown damage he’s done to the jeep, the weight of what’s just happened comes to him in forceful waves. 

“Fuck!” he breathes out, punching at the wheel.

“Scott,” Boyd says, taking his outburst as the acquiescence that it was meant to be, “Are we being followed?”

“I still don’t see anything,” Scott says. “But I agree we need to get to a hos--”

“Lydia,” Boyd cuts in.

“Right at the fork in one thousand feet,” she says.

“Got that, Stiles?” Boyd asks, his hand still a comforting weight on his chest. Stiles nods, stiffly. 

For the next 15 minutes, Stiles lives in the hushed whisper of Boyd’s relayed directions; a series of left turns, and veering rights, and  _ easy, easy, that’s a red light  _ warm against his neck. For 15 minutes, in the absence of panic, he feels nothing. 

+

Lydia is the first one out of the car before Stiles can even slow to a complete stop. She throws open the door and bounds off towards the glass doors leading into the emergency room. Behind him he can hear them maneuver the body around through a series of muffled grunts, and doors opening. 

Lydia comes back with three people trailing her, she points to where Boyd and Scott are hauling the limp body out of the back seat. 

They put Derek on the gurney, and then Lydia is coaxed into a wheelchair with Scott at her heels. 

Stiles jumps when Boyd opens up the drivers-side door. In one quick motion he leans across stiles and cuts the engine then undoes his seatbelt. 

“Stiles, let go,” Boyd says and places a hand on Stiles’ white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “We’re here. You can let go now.” 

Stiles nods and stares down at his hands. They don’t seem to want to move. He frowns a little before looking back to Boyd. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Boyd says, and slowly starts to peel back his hand from the wheel. Stiles’ hand feels stuck in the position, and he stares down at it as Boyd reaches over and releases the other one. 

Then he slowly turns Stiles towards him and eases him off of the seat. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, shocked at the flare of pain that shoots up his side as his foot touches the ground. He brings one hand to his side and winces. 

“What is it? What’s hurting?” Boyd asks, alert as he lets his gaze travel down Stiles body to check for obvious injuries. 

“It’s -”

“Stiles! Boyd!”

They both look over to find Scott waving them in, worry etched on his face. 

“Let’s just go,” Stiles says and starts to walk towards the entrance. Every other step feels like a knife twisting in his side; he doesn’t say anything as he and Boyd walk into the hospital. 

“Where are they?” Boyd asks, once they get inside with Scott. 

“Down here,” he says and they trail behind him past the nurses station and down to a curtained-off area. Inside of it Lydia is being peppered with a series of questions by a blonde female, in light blue scrubs with a messy, curly bun on her head while Derek is being looked over by a tall male in a mis-matched green pants, blue shirt scrubs combo. He lifts Derek’s eyelids and flashes a light across his eyes. 

Scott walks over to Lydia to try and help her answer questions while Stiles just stares. He stares at the man he knows more intimately than any other person, the man he’s been without for two years, and without even thinking his body gravitates towards him.

He reaches out a hand to touch him when he hears the sound of guns cocking.

“One more step and I’ll put you on the ground.”

The room goes silent. Stiles looks over his shoulder and finds the person from before. She’s ditched her shotgun for two smaller hand guns. And she’s staring daggers at Stiles.

“Well, this is different,” The blonde woman treating Lydia says.

“Yep,” The tall man says slowly and gently guides Stiles back towards the center of the room. “She’s probably bluffing, but just in case. I get a little squeamish with the splatter.” 

Before Stiles can even respond to that, another person is waltzing into the room. Her hair is clipped back into a sleek low bun and she only gives the woman a quick glance before she rushes over to Derek. 

“Braeden, why is there a dog in my ER,” She says over her shoulder then to the tall guy. Stiles looks down and startles a little bit, he hadn’t even noticed the dog before. “Lahey. Details,” The Doctor continues as she picks up the chart at the foot of the bed.

“Oh,” The male nurse says, giving the doctor a surprised look before he glances back at the woman, Braeden the doctor had called her. Stiles brain reels.  _ Braeden, _ he thinks. That had also been the name that Derek yelled in the car. He shakes his head out of his thoughts and tries to listen as the man apparently called Lahey continues. “I guess she came in a hurry. We could probably leave the dog outside? But it  _ is  _ getting pretty col-”

“Isaac,” The doctor snaps. “Details on the  _ patient. _ Not the dog. _ ”  _

“Oh, right. Yes, sorry,” he says and turns his attention back to Derek. “Pupils are mostly equal and reactive. Breathing is norm-”

“Mostly,” the doctor says as she pulls out her own pinlight to start examining his eyes.

.

“Well, yeah, it’s hard to tell if it’s permanently like that because of the, you know,” he says and gestures to the scar on his face.

“Hm,” She says as she looks down herself, switching back and forth between eyes. 

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks. The Doctor turns to look at Stiles, giving him an appraising glance. 

“ _ Morrell _ ,” The woman,  _ Braeden  _ Stiles brain shouts, says and Stiles looks to find her guns trained on him and Boyd. “Is he--”

“Where did you find him?” The Doctor asks, cutting her off. Stiles looks back.

“Um, on the main road leading into town,” Stiles starts. “He was in the middle of the road.”

“They kidnapped him!”

“We didn’t kidnap him-” Scott starts, but the woman moves the gun from Stiles to his direction and he quiets. 

“They hit him with their car then they took him," She shouts and juts the guns closer to their targets. Below her, the dog barks.

“Braeden,” The doctor says, voice scolding. “Get that dog out of here so I can work.”

“Oh are we ignoring the two giant guns being pointed at us right now!” Lydia snaps. 

“At least it’s only two this time,” the tall man, Isaac or Lahey or whatever, says. 

“Yeah, and technically it’s not pointed at you,” The blonde woman says. 

“Yeah, well once today was enough,” Lydia snaps. “Unless, that is, that you’ve already forgotten that you shot at us!”

“Yeah, well this time I won’t miss,” She says and points the gun she had on Scott on Lydia. 

“That’s enough, Braeden,” The doctor says. “Guns down, Dog out.”

“It’s Miguel’s dog,” She says, her voice tight. “ At least let me know he’s not dying.”

The doctor rolls her eyes. “Of course he’s not dying,” She says and then writes something on his chart before handing it to the man. “Issac is going to take him to get some tests done to make sure but he’s going to be fine.” 

She moves out of the way to let Isaac start to wheel him out, but Stiles steps forward. 

“Can I go with him?”

“No,” Braeden says. 

The doctor gives her a pointed look before she turns back to Stiles. “It will honestly only take a few minutes. It’s probably best you wait in the waiting room. In fact, “ she says taking stock of all the room's occupants. “If you aren’t family, in scrubs, or in a hospital bed, you should all go wait in the hallway.”

None of them move. 

“Hello, did you hear me? Out!”

“If family can come, I’m going with him,” Braeden says. 

“Not until you lose the guns and the dog,” The doctor says motioning for Isaac to keep going. “Oh, and when you and Miguel get married.”

“Who is Miguel?” Scott asks.

“The guy you hit with your car,” The blonde woman says as she wraps a blood pressure machine around Lydia’s arm making her wince. “We might need to get you in for an xray of this arm,” she adds.

“Him?” Stiles asks and points to Derek. “He’s Miguel?”

“Yes,” Braeden, the doctor, Isaac and the blonde woman say in unison. 

“Why?” Scott asks. 

“Because that’s his name.” Braeden says, agitated. “And I still don’t understand wh--”

“Stiles,” Boyd says, speaking up for the first time. “Didn’t you use to--”

“Fuck,” He says rubbing his face in his hands. “Yes. I used to write Miguel on the tags of his clothing.”

They all stare at him and Stiles can feel his face heat up with a flush of embarrassment. 

“It was a stupid inside joke, okay?” He turns back to the doctor as another person jogs up to the area. “But that man’s name is Derek Hale. He’s from Beacon Hills, California, and he went missing two years ago after a car accident right before our wedding.”

The doctor and Braeden exchange looks. 

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Braeden says.

“Look, I’ve let you point your guns at me all fucking morning,” Stiles says, frustration flaring. “And I’m over it. This man is my fiance and we,” he says, gesturing to where Boyd and Scott and Lydia are standing and lying before he continues. “Are his family. So if you don’t mind,” he says and points to Isaac. “Continue to do your job so we can get out of here.”

Silence.

“Damn,” the blonde says at the same time that Isaac whoops in triumph. “Thanks Erica. I’ll be expecting that $100 today.”

“Piss off.”

“Lahey,” The doctor snaps and points out the door. Braeden makes a move to follow, finally lowering her guns and tucking them into holsters behind her back, but both the doctor and the newcomer, a dark, bald man, move in front of her to stop her. 

“Deaton,” Braeden says. “You can’t-”

“I told you this was a possibility,” he says calmly. 

“You knew this was happening?” The doctor asks and then turns to Stiles. “Do you have any proof of this story?”

“Yes, actually,” Boyd says, coming over to hand her his phone. “Photos, and if you scroll far enough you’ll see screenshots of the save the date.”

“Certainly does look like it could be Miguel,” Erica says as she peers over her shoulder. “Much more clean shaven though. Kind of hot, but I like his mountain man look he’s got now too.”

“Reyes,” The doctor says and points back to the hospital bed, where Lydia is now glaring at them all with a thermometer stuck in her mouth. 

“If this is true,” Deaton says, taking the phone from the doctor and looking for himself.

“Which it’s not,” Braeden says.

“Then we have much to talk about, “ He continues, speaking over her with a pointed look. He turns back to Stiles and extends his hand. “My name is Dr. Alan Deaton and this is my sister, Dr. Marin Morrell, and this is Brea-”

“Deaton you can’t be serious,” Braeden starts. 

“We’ve been looking after Miguel, um Derek, for the last two years and would love to catch you up.”

“That would be great,” Stiles says and breathes out a stuttered sigh. He looks back to his friends for confirmation and his vision swims. He closes his eyes and nods.

“Yeah, really great..” he says slowly. 

“Stiles!” He hears Boyd shout before he faints. 

+

Stiles wakes up alone.

Well sort of alone. With a quick glance around the room he spots Lydia, fast asleep, in the hospital bed next to his. 

His hospital bed. His  _ own _ hospital bed. A dull panic starts to simmer deep in his chest as he tries to recall the events that would have led to him needing a  _ fucking _ bed. He hazily remembers shaking hands with someone, and the image of Derek being rolled out of the room flashes across his mind.

_ Derek, _ he thinks, his brain slow to connect any importance to the image being provided to him, and then he sits up fast as the events of the morning crash into his mind violently. 

His brain feels fuzzy as he tries to focus on one particular part, and he’s just about to try and get out of bed when a voice makes him pause.

“What the fuck,” someone mutters softly. Stiles turns his head to follow the sound of the voice and is met with a dividing curtain. Hurriedly, he stands and then promptly falls when pain shoots up his leg. He grabs, frantic for stability, at the curtain for support, but ends up just pulling it from its track and falling to the floor anyway. 

“Ow,” Stiles says weakly. 

“Are you okay?” 

Stiles looks up and finds Derek standing over him. 

Stiles can only stare at him, he’s frozen with shock or fear or some variation of the two and Derek stares back, expression blank. From this close distance, Stiles can really see him. All the things that the cameras weren’t able to catch. The things that, under the mound of facial hair he has now, confirm that this man is Derek Hale. His dead,  _ NOT DEAD _ his mind shrieks, fiance that he hasn’t seen in two years. 

Stiles has a million things running through his mind. Questions about what he’s been doing for the past two years, why didn’t he come home, doesn’t he miss him, his family? But when he opens his mouth to say something he starts laughing. 

Yep, laughing. Uncontrollable, deep from his gut, tears inducing laughter.

“Am I okay?” He wheezes, hands coming up cover his mouth. He shakes his head as his laughs get louder and a little more unhinged. 

“Um,” Derek says, and looks over his shoulder. When he looks back to Stiles he has a worried look on his face. But more than that, it’s the lack of acknowledgement, the utter absence of recognition on Derek’s face as he stares down at Stiles that sends him over the edge.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes out, and from then on he can not seem to make his lungs function properly and take in anymore air. He gasps, desperate to refill them, but his chest and lungs tighten painfully despite his efforts to stave off the rising panic. He wants to close his eyes in hopes that it will help his brain reset his body, but the very thought of letting Derek out of sight for a moment pains him even more. He’s dizzy with the lack of oxygen, or the sheer insanity of the moment of spiraling hysteria. 

Honestly, he’s even a little pissed. He just can’t believe he’s made it all this way just to die in front of this man. 

A hand rests on his chest. Stiles looks down at it and then follows the arm up to lock eyes with Derek. 

“Stop,” Derek says and then looks away in frustration. He shakes his head like he's trying to shake a thought away. After a second, he looks back to Stiles and taps his hand on Stiles chest. “Slow down,” he says and adds a little more weight to the hand tapping at Stiles' chest. “Focus.”

So Stiles does. He focuses on the steady tapping on his chest. The distantly familiar weight of Derek’s hand over his heart that’s beating so wildly Stiles feels like it’s attempting to make a run for it. Stiles can’t blame it. 

Stiles wouldn’t be able to tell you how long it took, but his breathing is almost evened out completely when they are disrupted.

“Miguel!” comes a female voice at the same time Boyd says “Stiles!” 

Derek looks over his shoulder just as Braeden comes into Stiles’ view, pulling Derek up from the ground. 

“What happened?” She asks as she guides him back onto the bed. She looks him over for any signs of injury and then shoots Stiles a suspicious look as Boyd bends down to help him up. 

“You okay?” Boyd says as he wraps an arm around Stiles to help him up. He feels the twinge of pain in his side again but he ignores it, his whole body feels numb at this point. Boyd sits him down on the hospital bed again and looks over his shoulder at Derek and then back to Stiles looking concerned. “Did he…?” He starts but trails off.

Stiles takes in the determined look on Boyd’s face, understanding hammering into him hard. He shakes his head quickly and then closes his eyes at the wave of dizziness that comes over him. 

“No, um, no.” He says and rubs at his eyes. He’s so fucking tired all of a sudden. “I woke up alone, and when I tried to get up to find someone I fell and, um,” He cleared his throat, feeling oddly self conscious about this confession, but he continues. “Um, then I had a panic attack when I saw Derek. He was just helping me calm down.”

He looks away, not wanting to see the look on Boyd’s face. Boyd rubs his hand soothingly down Stiles’ arm before leaning in to kiss the side of his head. Stiles feels exposed -- raw. 

“Well, I guess I’ll be adding that to your bill.”

They turn as Dr. Morrell walks in, her eyes on the curtain torn down from the ceiling. She smiles when she meets Stiles’ eye. “I’m joking.”

“Ha,” Stiles says weakly. “Sorry about before, but I’m ready to talk now.”

“Oh, Mr. Boyd didn’t tell you?” Stiles turns his head to the door again as Alan Deaton walks in with Scott trailing behind him. Scott gives him a small smile before he walks over to Lydia. He leans down to kiss her forehead, rousing her awake gently. 

Stiles looks at Deaton with confusion. “Tell me what?” He asked with a glance at Boyd. 

“Well for starters,” Dr. Morrell says. “You, Mr. Stilinski, have a bruised femur and a hairline fracture in your patella. Which should explain the pain leading to your earlier fainting and what I’m assuming was a fall just now.” She says pointing to the dividing curtain on the ground. “We’ll get you set up with a brace and some crutches. Okay?”

“Ms. Martin,” She continues without waiting for Stiles to respond. She turns to a now awake and sitting up Lydia. “You, as you already are aware, have a broken nose, which we’ve already set, and a bruised radius that you will also be getting a brace for. Any questions?”

“When can we leave?” Scott asks.

“Well, you can all be discharged today,” She said and then turns and walks back towards Derek. “And you, Mr. Miguel,” she said and crosses her arm to give him a playful glare. “I thought we talked about no more head injuries.”

He just looks at her confused. She taps her clipboard on his head playfully and laughs. “Well good news is that there’s no serious damage this time around. Just a little tenderness. Do you remember what happened today?”

He looks to Braeden and then around the room at the rest of them before he turns back to Dr. Morrell and shakes his head. 

“So some tenderness and memory loss,” She says and jots something down on his chart. “You’ll need to get that checked out by your primary physician once you get home,” she adds. 

“Deaton?” Derek asks, confusion deepening. 

Deaton smiles comfortingly and steps closer to Derek. He puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes tightly. “Not this time, my friend.” 

He takes a deep breath and looks at Braeden who just looks away before he turns back to Derek. “Miguel, we have good reason to believe that these people,” he pauses to gesture around the room. Derek glances at them all. When his eyes skates over Stiles once again without recognition, Stiles' chest tightens. Boyd inches to him closer. 

Deaton continues, “Are friends and family from your life before we found you.” 

Derek looks startled for a moment and looks around the room again, “family?” he asks, voice tinged with hopefulness, and Stiles’ heart breaks a little more.

“Yes,” Deaton says and gestured towards Stiles. 

Stiles who can no longer seem to understand how to speak now that everyone is looking at him. 

Boyd clears his throat and steps away from him and closer to Derek. 

“Yeah, I’m Ver,” Boyd starts and his voice breaks, “Vernon Boyd. But you call me Boyd.”

Derek nods slowly like he's taking it all in. Boyd nods too and then turns and points behind him. “That’s Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, and that’s Miec--,”

“Ugh don’t,” Stiles says waving his hands frantically. “I’m Stiles. That’s all you need to know.”

He’s feeling overwhelmed that he’s having to be reintroduced to someone who’s dick he’s had inside of him and he just wants to leave. “Move on.”

“Stiles,” Scott starts softly.

“He doesn’t remember anyway,” Stiles snaps back. “No need to confuse him further with a name no one fucking calls me.” 

Stiles turns back to Derek. “My name is Stiles.” 

Derek nods. “Family,” He repeats looking at them all before looking back to Stiles. “Are you my brother?”

“Oof,” Scott says and then “Ow. Why did you hit me?”

Stiles puts his head in his hands, perfectly content with the idea of someone putting him out of his misery at any moment. 

“Um, no, “ Boyd says. “He’s --”

“Your friend,” Stiles says, lifting his head and voice cracking. He clears his throat and looks at Boyd. “We’re your friends. Boyd here,” He said. “He’s your best friend.”

“Stiles,” Boyd whispers. Stiles shakes his head. 

“So, now that we’ve got that out of the way.” Stiles says blinking away the wetness forming around his eyes. “I hear you've come up with a plan while we were asleep.”

“Yes, Miguel,” Deaton says and then pauses and nods. “Your actual name is Derek. And your friends Boyd and Scott here have let us know that you have family in Beacon Hills, which is about 6 hours away from here.”

“Derek,” He whispers and then looks at Braeden who hasn’t said anything yet. “You said it was Miguel.”

“That’s also my fault,” Stiles says. “A joke, a prank I used to play on you.”

When they all stare blankly at him he continues. “What none of you write random names on your boyfr--” Stiles halts and clears his throat. “On your boys... your, uh, homies? Um, underwear.”

“Can’t say I have,” Deaton says and then turns back to Derek. “Regardless, we were wrong.”

Derek nods and looks away, down at his head, lost in thought. He rubs at his face over the scar along his temple. Like he’s trying, really hard, to comprehend all of this. He looks to Braeden.

“What does this mean?” He asks quietly. Braeden opens her mouth to speak but Deaton cuts in with a hand to Derek’s shoulder.

“Mr. Boyd and Mr. McCall,” He says and gestures to Boyd and Scott, “have been in contact with your family in Beacon Hills. They’ve arranged transport for you and your friends upon your release.” 

“I’m leaving?” Derek asks, sounding shocked.

“You don’t have to,” Braeden says. 

“Braeden,” Deaton chides.

“Deaton,” Braeden snaps back. “He’s an adult. He can decide for himself. How do we even really know if we can trust these people.”

As Braeden talks he can see Derek scan the room once more, uncertain this time.

“Migu- Derek,” Deaton says, correcting himself. “Listen to me. Your presence in our little town for the past two years has been a mostly wonderful adventure, and you are always welcome here.”

“But you want me to leave?” 

“But I want you to get proper treatment,” Deaton says. “We’ve cared for you the best we can but, after all, I am a Veterinarian. And Marin can only do so much.”

“For free,” Dr. Morrell adds with a small smile. “I agree with Alan. As much as I’m going to miss begrudgingly stitching you up in exchange for wellness teas and decorative wood pieces, I believe with some proper care and treatment we can get down to the root of what's going on in here,” she said and taps his head lightly. “Maybe even work on getting some of your memory back.”

Derek nods his eyes unfocused as he takes it all in. They all stand or sit there giving him time to process.

“Tonight,” Derek says after a while. He looks up to Deaton who nods and then to Braeden. “And I can come back.”

Braeden steps closer to Derek and puts a hand on his cheek. Stiles immediately can see the intimacy there and his body flinches in protest. 

“Like we could get rid of you that easily,” She says and leans down and brushes a soft kiss against his temple. Derek wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a hug. 

Stiles turns away, overwhelmed by the display and catches Lydia’s eye. He’s going to need so much therapy after this. Seeming to sense his dread she clears her throat, commanding the attention of the room. 

“Right,” She says. “Now that we have a plan, could we possibly get things moving. No offense to any of you, but quite frankly, I hate it here.”

There’s a beat of silence before Dr. Morrell speaks up. 

“Fair enough,” she says and turns, heading toward the door. “I’ll send in Nurse Reyes and Lahey to wrap up your treatment.”

“We’ll go back to the trailer and get your things packed,” Deaton says to Derek. “Shouldn’t be long.”

“Can’t you come with me,” Derek says to Braeden, but Deaton cuts in again before she can say anything. 

“We’ll accompany you on the drive there, but we won't be staying,” He says gently. “After talking with Marin, we think complete immersion into your old surroundings without distractions from us would be the best way to help trigger some memories.”

Derek says something in a whisper but Stiles doesn’t catch it, because Scott is sitting down on his bed next to him grabbing his attention. 

“Hey,” he says softly. Stiles can only smile back weakly. “I know,” Scott continues and only has time to ruffle Stiles' hair and lean in for a small peck on his head before he has to stand and let the two nurses from before come into the room with the previously mentioned braces. 

After being manhandled into his knee/leg brace, Stiles looks up to see Boyd talking quietly to Derek near the edge of the other bed. 

Stiles strains to listen for a second before the appearance of Dr. Morrell distracts him again.

“Alright, Mr. Stilinski, Ms. Martin, and,” She pauses, a brief moment of hesitation on her face before she continues, “and Mr. Hale,” She says with a look at Derek.

“You’re all set here,” Says and passes some paperwork to Stiles and then to Scott for Lydia. “Here’s some copies of your paperwork to give to your primary caregivers in Beacon Hills, and they'll be able to set you up with billing at the front desk on your way out.”

She turns and walks towards Derek, resting her hand on his shoulder and giving it a small squeeze, “You take care of yourself, Miguel.”

He smiles a little sadly and nods. “Thank you,” he says softly. She pats his shoulder one last time and gives the rest of the room a quick nod before she swiftly exits the room. 

“What a strange day,” Issac says numbly as he stares where Dr. Morrell just left. 

“Seriously, I’ve never seen her so emotional,” Erica says, bewildered.

“What on earth is wrong with you people,” Lydia snaps. “Can we move this along?”

“I’ll go check on the car,” Boyd says, jumping into action at the tone of her voice. Scott follows and adds hastily. “And I’ll go get your paperwork started.”

They watch the two of them leave and Erica whistles. “Damn, you’re good.”

Lydia just glares at her. “Don’t you have some wheelchairs to retrieve?”

Erica and Issac hurry out of the room soon after. 

+

Thirty minutes or so later Lydia and Stiles are getting wheeled out of the hospital to a shiny black SUV. A driver hops out and starts to open the doors for them. 

“My jeep,” Stiles starts, looking around for it. 

“We’re going to have to tow it,” Boyd says. Suddenly at his side. He huffs out a laugh at Stiles' look of indignation. “Relax, it’s already en route so no use fighting me about it.”

As Scott gets him and Lydia settle into the very back row, Stiles begrudgingly lets Boyd help him into his seat so he can have room to stretch out his leg along the second. When the door is closed Stiles watches from the window as Derek says his goodbyes to the small group of people who have presumably been his family for the last two years. First Issac, who looks like he’s crying as he hugs him, then Erica who tries and fails to do some complicated handshake with him. 

A smaller black car pulls up behind them and Braeden gets out and walks over to Derek. 

Stiles turns away then. He doesn’t want to see. 

A few moments later, the car door opens and Boyd climbs inside the front passenger seat. Stiles tries not to think about why he didn’t join him in the back.

“Alright, They are going to follow us,” Boyd says to the driver.

“So are we all good to go?” The driver asks. 

“Yes,” Lydia snaps from the back. 

“Alrighty then,” Beacon Hills it is!” He says in a far cheerier tone than the moment calls for.

And as they drive away from the hospital, Stiles has only one thought in his mind.

_ What now? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from Derek in the next chapter :) 
> 
> WHICH I PROMISE IM ALREADY WRITING. 
> 
> If you liked these last two chapters, please consider dropping a comment. It really helps a lot.


End file.
